


Spring

by orphan_account



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, D'Artagnan can be sad too, M/M, Ratings may go up, Slow Build, angsty Athos, but really he's an eager puppy, ongoing spoilers, slight angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2015-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 02:12:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 25,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1180690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>DISCONTINUED Athos hadn't had a good day in five years, and being condemned on false premises was not exactly an improvement. But then, perhaps he was wrong; and perhaps this Gascon boy, who stumbled into his life with a sword and a shout like a bad omen, was actually the herald of better days to come.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Friends and Enemies

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY IS OFFICIALLY DISCONTINUED  
> Sorry, I have neither the time nor (more importantly) the motivation to keep going. If someone wants to adopt it and continue, by all means feel free to do so.  
> Thanks for the support you have shown to this story, it has kept me going for far longer than was probably wise...

D'Artagnan did not stop once to think when his father dropped at his feet and died in his arms, with an unknown name on his lips. Athos. He did not cry, did not shout, once he realized there was nothing he could do to revive his father. He stayed still in the rain for a while, letting it wash all over him, welcoming the numbing cold sensation. Then, after what seemed like a decade at least, he stood, gathering the body of his father in his arms, and walked to the inn. It was hard: a corpse is one of the hardest things to move, because you will always be surprised by how pliant, how unresponsive it is. But he carried him, carried it, anyway, all the way to the inn, where he found another dead body and the innkeeper swearing while trying to bandage his own arm. The man stopped when he saw d'Artagnan, looked at him with round eyes, before scrambling up to come and help him lay down his father on the table.

Even then, confronted once more with the still face of the one man he had looked up to all his life, he did not stop. He closed his father's eyes, crossed his arms over his chest, and then he paid the innkeeper to see that his father was properly buried, within the church cemetery, and his burial attended to by a priest. The innkeeper seemed to have qualms about taking the money at first, but d'Artagnan simply left it on the table beside his father's head, and then left. He went back to the stable, didn't spare a glance for the man he had killed, just saddled his horse again, and then left the inn without a thought in his mind, apart from one name: Athos.

 

* * *

 

He was slightly less numb when he arrived in Paris on the morning after, thanks to the aggravation of having become lost several times. His father had gone up to Paris several times in his life, and he had not bothered to tell his son the exact road he intended to take. By the time he had crossed the city gates and found at last the street where they were supposed to find a good inn, it was midday at least. The place he found was a far cry from what he had expected, and probably not what his father had had in mind, but it would have to do; he did not wish to search for another one. Instead he settled down in the common room with a drink, and then another, and mulled over the name. Athos. It had a nice ring to it, or would have had, if it hadn't been the name of a murderer and a coward. He still remembered the men running from him, scrambling up their horses and galloping away like boys after a prank gone wrong. To think that such men could have ended the life of one as honourable as his father... He gritted his teeth and downed another glass of wine.

Still, he kept the name in his mind, turning it over and over again. Athos. A musketeer, from what he had gathered from the innkeeper while he laid down the body of his father. He had been dreaming of joining the company of the chevau-léger ever since he was a boy, listening to tales of the good king Henry, and his great company of gallant cavalry men; and when the King Louis XIII had changed that company's name by arming them with muskets eight years earlier, he had dreamt of becoming a musketeer. Now, he did not know; he did not want to think about it. Just about Athos, and how justice would be done once he found the man.

Then distraction arrived in the figure of a terribly fat, ridiculous man, and a terribly beautiful lady, who looked sharp as his own blade. He welcomed it, the fight, the aggression, the excuse for ascertaining his superiority. It was stupid, but he had not been able to stop the men in that inn, to save his father, and it felt good to remind himself that he was good in a fight, that he could hold his own – that he wouldn't be helpless when he faced Athos. So he didn't think about how ridiculous he must have looked, insolent and itching for a fight with an opponent so clearly under his league, and just enjoyed the moment.

It was sweet, but too short; but there was something sweeter and far more potent coming his way, something he would not even have guessed by the condescending, faintly disgusting look the lady shot him before sweeping away upstairs. So, when they crossed paths again in the same stairs, he just stepped back to let her pass, and didn't even realize what he was in for until he felt the emptiness on his belt and heard the silkiness of her voice. Adrenaline shot through him, and one more feeling returned to him, breaking through the haze as she backed him against his own door: fear.

And then, desire, and passion, and still he did not think, just welcomed the opportunity to lose himself even more in the arms of this dangerous, exciting stranger.

After, she was sweet, and the urge he felt to see justice done for her, too, for the suffering and betrayal she had endured was something different from his own wish for justice, something that cleared his mind a bit; but somehow, in the night, while he slept, Athos and his dead father still plagued his dreams.

 

* * *

 

Athos was not having a good day; but then again, he hadn't really had one in five years, so maybe it wasn't even worth mentioning. Tréville was going to be in a bad mood when he heard that they had found all of nothing, and he was tired from riding. He hadn't had a drink in rather too long, and he was starting to get hungry, to boot. He felt like there was something amiss, something wrong brewing up somewhere. He usually trusted those kinds of gut feelings, and he was usually right; but he hated being right, because it usually ended up with him, or Aramis, or Porthos, or another fellow musketeer, in a terrible position.

So when a boy, hardly old enough to know the right end of a sword, made the kind of entrance usually reserved to Aramis and challenged him, he was torn between sighing at the bother, and enjoying the opportunity to give vent to his frustration. However, when it became clear that the boy was wholly mistaken, his choice was immediately taken away from him: of course he could not fight whole-heartedly. He was about to tell him so and simply leave, when this d'Artagnan just rushed at him with a shout, and the duel began.

He tried to keep a level head, to oppose his calm to d'Artagnan's mindless fury, but he was soon obliged to fight more in earnest than he would have thought. It came as a surprise, and he soon realized that this man must be a really good fencer in truth, if he could push him thus even when blinded by anger. It was all he could do to defend himself without hurting the Gascon, and little by little his control slipped, until at last he snapped and pushed the other man against a pillar. Maybe sticking his main gauche into the wood wasn't strictly necessary, but he enjoyed the moment, the surprise and slight fear in d'Artagnan's eyes, his slow realisation that maybe he had bitten more than he could chew. He took a second to remind himself that this was just a boy, apparently maddened by grief, and that he shouldn't be too harsh on him.

But when he turned back, only to have a dagger miss him by no more than a few inches, he had to admit: this was no mere boy. Quite the opponent in fact, and he had to nod in grudging respect for his sheer stubbornness – or maybe sheer stupidity, but for the musketeers, that was often the same thing, and always a sign of valour. And now, he quite looked forward to fighting this man, and making him bite the dust. He was nearly disappointed when Aramis and Porthos took part, and surprised by the feeling: it had been long since the last time he had really cared that much for a duel.

Still they played, and of course d'Artagnan couldn't threaten the three of us for the life of him, of course not; but Athos saw the way he could twist his way out of a tricky move, and avoid a dangerous thrust that would have hurt a lesser fencer. D'Artagnan was good indeed. He was about to suggest he surrender and they talk about it over a drink, like civilised gentlemen, when Constance Bonacieux arrived on the scene, and that was one more thing that surprised him: never would he have imagined this Gascon, still smelling of the countryside, to already have friends in Paris. And good friends, at that; he knew Constance passing well, and had the highest regard for her. Not so much for her oaf of a husband, though.

The whole scene was finally starting to go somewhere, as apparently bickering with Constance like hens was the way to cut through d'Artagnan's blind anger and he had finally stopped trying to kill Athos, at least for a moment, when soldiers appeared, led by Tréville. He sensed something was wrong, but reported to his commander all the same, waiting for him to explain the presence of the red guards behind him.

When the explanation came, it was all he could do not to draw his rapier against his superior; but he felt more than he saw Aramis and Porthos move on each side of him, and he knew that they were bound to get in trouble, so he surrendered peacefully, all the while trying to understand what could possibly be happening.

But before following the guards, he had to turn back to d'Artagnan, to defend himself once more. He did not really know why he felt so compelled to not make a worse impression on the Gascon, but the feeling was there nonetheless, and there was the smallest twinge of relief when d'Artagnan seemed to finally understand that there was something wrong, and that maybe he had come after the wrong man. He walked away, still trying to puzzle why exactly this man's opinion was important to him, and finally decided that he had liked the duel too much not to have another opportunity to see d'Artagnan fight – maybe in less tense circumstances, to better assess his skills.

 

* * *

 

Standing in front of the Bonacieux's hearth, faced with the two musketeers who had helped Athos and intruded on his duel, d'Artagnan felt like one at a crossroads. He still clung to the name of Athos, and to the musketeer uniforms he had glimpsed at the inn as a proof; but on the other hand, this proof seemed to be getting less and less convincing, and the more he thought about it, the more he believed Athos' entreating assertions of his own innocence.

So, he chose his path, to the great surprise of Constance; but the harder and faster they rode from Paris to the inn, the more he became convinced he was right. Aramis and Porthos had presented themselves, and though they were grim and tense with urgency, he could sense that they would probably have been good travel companions under other circumstances. Maybe once this was all over, if they succeeded in understanding what had happened and in clearing Athos, they could become his friends, and possibly help him get a place in the Musketeers' garrison.

D'Artagnan shook his head and concentrated on not getting lost, in both literal and figurative sense. He did not yet know for sure that Athos was innocent, and he would have to be careful of those men he hardly knew. Still, he could not help but think of how terrible it must be to be imprisoned, and sentenced to death, with a clear conscience; how exhilarating it had felt to fight someone as skilled as Athos had been, so much so that even through his anger, he had not been able to help admiring him. He let his thoughts drift this way and that, but mainly remain fixated on Athos, while they rode and when they searched for the corpse at the inn. It was better than remembering the last time he had seen this building.

And when they rode away, he did not spare a last glance on the yard where his father had died, for fear the rawness of the wound would tear him apart. He needed to see this to the end, and he knew Aramis and Porthos wouldn't hesitate to send him away should he become a burden. So once again, he thought of Athos, reflecting wryly that he had just spent two days with his thoughts full of a man he had seen all of fifteen minutes, give or take. Admittedly, it had been an eventful quarter of an hour, but still; he had not had another man in his thoughts so much since the first duel he had fought, four years ago.

But soon, other, more important things drove Athos from his thoughts, and it was all he could do to follow the musketeers. There was fear, confusion, and several times he even thought he might not keep up with them – especially with this whole torture business. He was relieved when the guard broke, because there was an edge to Porthos and Aramis, to their eyes and their voices, that told him that they would probably not have hesitated to go through with it all, and he did not know if he would have been able to stand it.

He didn't have time to think about it more than that, because they found the fake musketeers, and all of sudden he had to stop thinking altogether, to stop himself from unravelling while he faced the man who killed his father. Afterwards though, when all was done, when he had gotten Constance back to her husband and he, Aramis and Porthos were waiting for an emergency audience with the King, he slowly started thinking once again, just cautiously skirting around the sore subject of his loss. Instead, once more his thoughts turned to Athos. Who exactly was he, to inspire such loyalty from his friends? He really hoped the King would agree to see them, and to free the man; he wanted the opportunity to get to know him. After all, it seemed only fair, when he had just spent so long with his name branded in his mind. He smiled when the thought came to him like this, and had to duck his head to avoid notice. He did not want to have to explain that to his companions.

 

* * *

 

Athos was about to break as the sun went up, and he knew it. He deserved to die, had deserved to for the last five years, but something, some strip of decency, had always stopped him from committing such a vile act as suicide. He had endured, and thrown himself into every fight he could with an ardour and a lack of self-preservation which had, alas, only served to improve his skills. Sometimes he felt like he was immortal, and condemned for all eternity to endure this pain, this despair; but not now. Now, he was about to break, and even as he hated himself for it, he could not help it. So he did the only thing he could think of: he rushed to it, barked an order, to have it over with, at last.

And when Aramis and Porthos appeared out of nowhere and a release order materialized in their hands, as if out of thin air, he was torn between wanting to embrace them and punch them. Thankfully, his chains would not allow him to do any of the two, so he just sagged against the wall in relief, before making his way to the outer yard, where he would at last get his weapons, hat, and his musketeer cloak back. He was surprised to find d'Artagnan leaning against the stairs, as if he belonged there, smiling at him from under his hair. He didn't know if it was from sheer relief, or just a contrast to the last time he had seen him, snarling with a blade in hand, but the Gascon looked beautiful as a new, fresh day to him. He moved on with a nod, firmly squashing the thought in the bud, but still he listened to d'Artagnan's steps behind him.

Later, when they found themselves at a tavern to drink to their success, he left the three together, found himself a bottle of cheap wine so acid it would make him gag if he wasn't used to it by now, and a quiet, dark corner. He was still more shaken than he cared to admit, and he knew he was not up to anything but brooding right now. He needed to settle his mind, to regain his composure. He had nearly told the priest everything, believed for a split second that maybe he could be forgiven for what he had done, when he should have known it would never be, could never be.

The evening slowly became bleaker and bleaker, and he knew he was in for one hell of a hangover on the morrow, even by his standards; but somehow he could not stop drinking, because if he did, he was going to have to face his life and the darkness inside of him, and he had never been ready for that, and never would be. He was slumped against the wall like the worthless drunkard that he was when there was movement, and all of a sudden d'Artagnan was sitting there, right in front of him, with a tentative smile and a glass of wine in his hand. He raised his glass in salute, and d'Artagnan clinked the rims together before draining his, without ever looking away from him. His eyes were dark, and there was a depth to them in the badly lit tavern that he hadn't seen there in the morning.

“So”, d'Artagnan said after putting down his glass. “Do you think I could become a musketeer?”

“You heard Tréville”, Athos answered with a sigh and a shake of his head; but he was more amused than anything else. “Not at the moment, no. You need to prove yourself. It takes time.”

“I know. But one day? We fought. What did you think?”

Athos took a moment to think on that, while refilling their glasses. The empty bottle clinked against the other he had already finished when he placed it on the floor by his stool.

“Maybe. But I will have to see you fight, to get an outsider's perspective. And to see you fight with a cool head, not like a raging lunatic.”

D'Artagnan blushed and ducked his head at that, hiding behind his hair like a shy boy. He was a boy, Athos realized, in so many ways; and yet, when he looked back up at the musketeer, his gaze was serious and earnest, and there was an edge of pain there that told of a man grown.

“I'm sorry. For attacking you like this. And I'm glad we got you out in time.”

“Wait until you know me before you decide that my life was worth saving, boy”, Athos answered a bit more harshly than he had intended. D'Artagnan seemed surprised at his tone, maybe even hurt, but he couldn't be sure, he didn't know him well enough, even though his face often looked like an open book.

“Still”, d'Artagnan said again after a while of tense silence. “I'm glad I can get to know you.”

He bit his lip, as if he was about to say more but had changed his mind at the very last moment, and Athos' eyes lingered a while on his mouth before he abruptly downed his glass to try and regain some clarity. Or maybe the reverse, he was not quite sure. D'Artagnan rose from his stool, and started walking back to the table where Porthos was busy plucking money off a fat, stupid-looking trader. Athos didn't know what to say, but he felt he should say something, so he called d'Artagnan back. The Gascon turned, an eyebrow raised, his face still open despite Athos' lack of courtesy.

“I'm... Looking forward to seeing you proving yourself.”

D'Artagnan granted him a bright smile then, a smile that slowly turned predatory, sending an expectant shiver down Athos' spine.

“Me too”, the Gascon answered before turning his back on him once more and striding confidently towards Porthos.

For a split second, Athos yearned for something else, but he didn't know what, and his mind was probably already too weakened by the wine; so he drank one more glass to forget. But he didn't; and for once it was not his wife's face he saw in his few dreams, but another, a laughing, frank face, fresh as spring and soothing as cool water.


	2. Sleight of hand

D'Artagnan had spent the following days loitering around the courtyard of the garrison, joking, eating and even on occasion sword-training with them, until Tréville had summoned Athos to his quarters, annoyance clear on his face.

“There is a pup out there, and I believe I have already told him that no place was open in the ranks of the musketeers at present. Why do you think he is still here?”

Athos raised an eyebrow at that. Why would Tréville imagine he had anything to say about d'Artagnan's behaviour? He should have asked Aramis or Porthos. They had been the ones who had enlisted the boy on their quest to prove his innocence, and they surely knew him better. He had hardly talked to the Gascon, and their exchanges had left him more puzzled than anything as to his motives and character. Something told him d'Artagnan was actually a very simple man, stubborn and cocky but untroubled, but there was this depth to his eyes, glimpsed in the darkness of a tavern.

“I wouldn't know. Probably stubbornness. He is, after all, a Gascon”, Athos answered with a slight smirk.

Most musketeers hailed from Gascony, as had the Good King Henry, and Tréville was a Gascon himself, though he had lived longer in Paris than in his own lands in the South of France. D'Artagnan would probably have had less difficulty finding a post in the ranks of the Musketeers than another man, in other circumstances; but now, the Cardinal Richelieu was hounding them more than ever, and Tréville had decided that he would not recruit so freely as he used to, at least until the Cardinal was not hounding their every action. He could not afford the slightest weakness in his men.

“Well, I trust you will make him understand that he will not be accepted simply because he lounges around here like some spectator at a show”, Tréville said in the voice he usually reserved for light rebuffs.

There were degrees to Tréville's rebuffs, indeed: this particular tone was usually reserved for the times when he was obligated to scold his men, but was internally proud of their actions, or at least approving them. Athos raised an eyebrow: so he had been right, and their captain had quite warmed up to the new Gascon boy. Hardly surprising, given that he had shown true musketeer mettle, from what Aramis and Porthos had told everyone.

“I can try, but I cannot promise anything.”

“I understand that”, Tréville sighed, hunching again over his desk to pore over a letter that seemed particularly troublesome. “Actually...” He trailed off, obviously having had an epiphany of sorts, and Athos waited patiently; this kind of look on Tréville's face usually meant some brilliant, but highly risky solution to a problem at hand was forthcoming. He wondered who would be called on this time, hoping it might be him. He was itching to get some action, to rid his head of the thoughts of his past that had plagued him since his night in prison.

“Maybe what the boy really needs is an occasion to prove his worth. Listen here...”

 

* * *

 

Porthos slashed at him, then rolled on the ground to avoid his parry; d'Artagnan smirked, certain that he had him this time, and closed the distance, ready to lay the tip of his sword on the hollow of Porthos' throat, the very irksome gesture he had been on the receiving hand of several times already – when Porthos tensed, and landed a mighty kick between his legs. D'Artagnan fell to the ground with a groan and tried to get away, but the pain was too much, and before he could stand back up, there was the cold touch of a blade against his neck.

“Not bad”, Porthos grinned. “You're getting the hang of it. But you still fight like a nice little lord in a fencing lesson. You wouldn't last a minute in a real fight.”

“I think we have been at it for a bit longer than that”, retorted d'Artagnan. Porthos laughed and lent him a hand to get up, before patting him on the shoulder.

“That's because I went easy on you. After all, we want to teach you, not kill you.”

“And I guess your aim was not to emasculate me, either?”

“Now, now”, Aramis cut in, a hand on both their shoulders, aiming his wry smile at d'Artagnan. “We wouldn't want to deprive your poor lodger, would we?”

D'Artagnan rolled his eyes before striding to the table placed against one wall of the training yard, where he had placed his coat, his shirt and his hat, preferring to train in the jerkin of thick leather Athos had provided a few days earlier, “so he wouldn't kill himself on a training blade”. There was a bottle of cider and goblets, too, and he downed half of one with relief. He had not realized he was that thirsty, but then he had been training for a good hour, at least, first with Aramis and then with Porthos. They had different styles of fencing: Aramis liked to put in a few flourishes here and there, as much because it amused him as because it could surprise his opponent, while Porthos relied a lot more on his strength. Still, both shared one thing: they were ruthless, and they fought to win, not to show honour. They went easy on him, but still he felt it, and he knew that their aim was to incapacitate or kill their opponents, and nothing else.

It was something he was not quite used to yet, but he guessed it was the only reason why they had been able to take on a good dozen men and still win, that night he had faced his father's killer. Maybe they were right when they laughed at his way of waiting for his opponent to get back to his feet before pressing him; maybe honour did not have anything to do in a fight. Still, he could not quite bring himself to forget the many lessons he had learned from his father, and his idea that honour was the first and foremost quality a man could want, in any given situation.

He leaned against the table and watched Aramis and Porthos start a bout of fencing, with both their rapiers and their main gauche; circling each other, prowling like beasts ready to pounce at any moment. He liked watching them fight, trying to learn as much as he could from what he saw. He was a fast learner, had always been, at least where fighting was concerned; Aramis had been surprised the first time he had successfully reproduced a move that he had seen Porthos use, and it had made Athos smirk. The sight had made d'Artagnan's day, even if Aramis had used the distraction to sweep the legs from under him and win the fight.

He had not had another opportunity to fight Athos, and somehow he found he was disappointed. But the musketeer kept his word, and had hardly missed an opportunity to watch him fight. It had been slightly unsettling at first, to train with a musketeer while being watched by those silent, guarded eyes; but he had recovered soon enough, and ever since, he had gained in confidence every day. Perhaps they would fight again soon; he certainly hoped to.

“Aramis, Porthos, d'Artagnan!” Shouted Old Serge, interrupting Aramis in the midst of a particularly interesting, tricky looking move. D'Artagnan nearly protested. “Tréville wants to see you.”

“Are we in any trouble?” Porthos asked, not really looking worried, while Aramis sheathed his sword.

“Don't think so. But I'd hurry if I were you.”

D'Artagnan was about to take off his jerkin and put back his clothes, but Aramis took his elbow and dragged him firmly in his wake.

“When Tréville calls, you run. Besides, he's bound to like you if he sees that you've been training. Appreciation, D'Artagnan. Learn to earn it, and you will be well liked, which can always serve.”

In Tréville's rooms, they found Athos, facing a window, his arms crossed. He didn't look up when they entered but kept on looking into the yard, his face a stony mask. Tréville immediately started explaining what seemed a complicated and dangerous situation, involving a politically active madman, too much gunpowder for it to be really safe, and a spy. At which point he looked straight at d'Artagnan, and said, “Of course it can't be a musketeer, he'll know immediately, and he wouldn't trust one.”

D'Artagnan nodded, and waited for the rest; but nothing came afterwards. They all looked at him, expectant; even Athos had turned and was gazing at him, his face giving nothing away of what he could be thinking. Belatedly, he realized Tréville wanted him to step in, despite having made very clear that he wouldn't be involved with the musketeers any time soon, and it was hard to restrain a smile. He had to seem reliable, and grinning at the thought of a perilous mission was perhaps not the best way of conveying this impression.

“If you would allow me, captain, I could do it. I'm not part of the musketeers, and I'm new to Paris, nearly no one knows me.”

Tréville nodded, and he nearly looked pleased, which was decidedly making it hard for d'Artagnan not to grin. He then proceeded to explain in more details what they had to do, and they were soon sent on their way, with the mission of finding a way to get d'Artagnan involved in a duel, which would probably not be a very complicated task.

In the yard, Aramis took his jerkin from him and went to put it back, while Porthos volunteered to get them some more cider before they went in search of the good soul who would get d'Artagnan his ticket to prison. The Gascon put his shirt and his coat back on, but before he could put on his hat Athos had closed in on him, his gaze earnest.

“You shouldn't be doing this.”

“Why?”

Athos bit his lip and looked away.

“It will be dangerous, and you will be alone. It should be a musketeer, one of us”, he said after a moment, looking back at him. D'Artagnan didn't know how to answer that without anger, and had to take a deep breath to not let himself react too harshly. Athos was close to him, and he smelled like leather and sweat, earth and wine. It was a strangely good smell, but a heady one.

“Do you not trust me?”

He regretted asking the question immediately. Athos just held his gaze without answering, and d'Artagnan had to resist the urge to fidget or look away. Of course he didn't trust him, they didn't trust him. They hardly knew him, and just because he had helped once didn't mean he could consider himself one of them. Still, he wouldn't back down from this. Athos seemed to understand it, because he took one step back and nodded.

“We will try to stay close to you, but you will be on your own.”

“I know that already”, d'Artagnan answered, more sarcastically than he had intended. He was hurt, and he knew it was foolish, so he did as he had always done, and hid behind his anger. Athos nodded once more, and turned to Aramis and Porthos, who were coming back with the new bottle of cider. But when they toasted d'Artagnan's first mission for the musketeers, Athos didn't raise his glass with them.

 

* * *

 

 

Athos gritted his teeth while d'Artagnan got ready for the duel, listening to the last recommendations of Aramis and Porthos, his gaze already fixed on his opponent. The man was a fool and probably not as good as the Gascon, but it was still a first risk to take. When he stepped in front of d'Artagnan to reiterate his misgivings about the whole situation, the boy did not meet his eyes, and Athos wasn't sure if it was because he was too focused already, or because he had still not forgiven him his lack of trust. Well, Athos was careful who he trusted now, and d'Artagnan would have to deal with it, he thought while gripping the glove handed to him.

The fight was as he had thought: the stranger was way under the Gascon's league, but he did fight more like Porthos would done, which seemed to disturb their friend for a moment, before he got his feet under him and started to retaliate in earnest. Athos raised a brow at the kick in the groin which seemed quite vicious for one so inexperienced as d'Artagnan was, and held back a chuckle when he heard the pride in Porthos' voice. Of course he had been the one to teach him that, probably a painful lesson. Athos remembered quite well the first time he had fought his Porthos, and how he had but closely avoided one such kick.

Then, as scheduled, the red guards irrupted on the scene, sending everyone running. When they paused long enough to turn back, they saw d'Artagnan running through the trees, chased by the guards, and for just a second Athos felt the urge to run after him, and help him escape. He shook it immediately, and followed his friends back to the city, where the second phase of their plan could be started.

It was a long few days, tiring in the worst possible sense. They accompanied the queen to the prison, for which he really was grateful to Tréville; but of course, none of them could have predicted how this would turn. He had been itching all morning to know how d'Artagnan was. No one knew of their ploy, except themselves, Tréville and the Cardinal; the prison guards wouldn't know, and he wanted to make sure that d'Artagnan had not been mistreated, as he knew could happen. While he discreetly took his leave of the Queen's escort, he briefly reflected on the symmetry between him and the Gascon: a few days earlier, he had been the one imprisoned, after all, wrongly accused of something he hadn't done.

For a moment he didn't know what to do, when the door opened on the mutiny inside and he got a glimpse of d'Artagnan inside. His instinct told him to fight his way to the boy and help him out, but when their eyes locked for a second, he realized that Vadim was right next to him, a hand on his sleeve as if to guide him. With his teeth gritted, Athos whirled and gained open ground, where he would be more at an advantage with space to use his sword. He waited for d'Artagnan and Vadim to come out, but they didn't, and at last he gave up and fought his way to the outer yard, where the Queen still was, leaving the prison guards free range on the doomed prisoners.

But the situation when he arrived to the main gate was worse than he could have imagined, and he nearly gawked at the Queen being held hostage. D'Artagnan's gaze darted between Tréville and him, waiting. He knew from his tense posture that he would jump on Vadim if need be, but he also knew that this would almost certainly doom the Queen, so he held his breath, waiting to see what would happen. When d'Artagnan nodded and Tréville ordered the gate open, he nearly interrupted his commander, but he knew better than that. D'Artagnan did not stand a chance if Vadim turned against him now, armed as he was.

Still, when he stepped out the gate to watch the Gascon ride away with Vadim's men, hunching to try and avoid a musket ball to the back, he could have screamed. It was not supposed to go that way, never. He was furious, with Tréville, with the Cardinal, with every soldier who fired without even knowing who they were shooting, but most of all with himself for allowing this charade. Of course d'Artagnan would have to try and do something reckless. How had he not seen that coming? He stepped back inside before he could say anything more, wishing to cross paths with a few more escaping prisoners. He really, really needed some outlet for his frustration right now.

 

* * *

 

He had never felt so alive, or more likely, so aware of his own life, and how it hung by a thread. It was exhilarating, and he relished it all the more when he gained the opportunity to see his friends, at last. Constance really was a good woman, he thought with a smile, the ghost of her breath still on his lips; but he soon shook himself, and went inside to wait for Athos – and probably Aramis and Porthos, too. But it was Athos he really wanted to see, him he wanted to convince that he was perfectly capable of going on that kind of missions.

Yet when they arrived, and the questions started, he found himself more and more stupid. He didn't know anything, really, and he had achieved nothing, except for gaining the trust of a mad criminal. The three of them looked thoughtful, and Athos looked more unconvinced than ever, so it wasn't really a surprise when he assessed, ordered, that he was to stand back and let them finish the work.

D'Artagnan was nothing if not stubborn. He had started this mission, and he would see it to an end. Besides, he was more valuable to them on the inside, surely they could see that. He knew Athos was about to flat out refuse from the look in his eyes, when Constance interrupted them with a bottle of wine, and he had never liked her more – expect that she was cross with him, again, and he hated that. He watched her leave, glad that he hadn't been on the receiving end of her anger – at least the physical manifestation of it – this time, but then Athos stepped in front of him, and he forgot about his good landlady.

“It's too dangerous”, Athos said, his voice low, looking as if he had already made his mind. D'Artagnan seethed.

“I can do this”, he retorted in a near whisper, holding Athos' gaze, searching, trying to make him see. “Trust me.” He nearly regretted his choice of words, given that he knew already that Athos didn't trust him, probably never would at this rate; but he wouldn't take them back.

They all exchanged glances, and he could have hugged Aramis and Porthos. Maybe they didn't really trust him either, but they were willing to give him a chance, and it was all he needed. Athos clapped him on the shoulder, and d'Artagnan tried not to linger on the way he didn't look him in the eyes anymore, just helped himself to some wine. He would make him see, and he would make gain his trust, if it was the last thing he did.

 

* * *

 

Athos was nothing if not dutiful. If there was one thing that could define him, it was that. His most hated quality. So he didn't say anything when Tréville gave his final order, and he dutifully followed him out, with fresh blood on his fingers, d'Artagnan's blood probably. He could always hope, but he knew it would have been stupid. The boy was probably dead by now, and it was their fault, his fault. He didn't say a word to anyone, just followed his captain, careful not to think, careful not to feel anything. He had work to do, his duty to uphold, and he would not break down now.

  
He tried not to think of how this familiar it al felt, firmly crushed the thought, and avoided looking at Aramis and Porthos. They knew him too well, and they would see through his dead eyes, all the way to the core of feelings he was trying so hard to supress. He couldn't allow that.

However, on the following day, when it became clear that they had been tricked, that Vadim had never been fooled and had planned it all perfectly, that they had walked right into it... That D'Artagnan, if he was dead, had died for nothing... He snapped then, and forgot all. Duty, Tréville, the King and Queen, all. He started running, trusting his friends to follow him. There was no time to waste, and he wanted Vadim, wanted to find him and wring his neck himself – for fooling him so, and for what he feared had been done to the Gascon.

At last, they had him, their pistols pointed straight at his vile, traitorous face; he could not escape, and he would have to answer their questions. Athos tried to keep his voice steady, but he wasn't sure he had succeeded, when he asked after d'Artagnan's fate. He tried to decipher Vadim's gaze, to see the truth in his eyes, but he couldn't read anything there, only the glint of madness and – was it triumph?

Then all went black, and he just had time to think that they were all dead, because he had been a fool, and had wanted to give D'Artagnan a chance to prove himself. Fool.

 

* * *

  

When it was all over, and Tréville had offered him his congratulations, with a smile and a pat on the back, they all went to a tavern to celebrate. Aramis and Porthos were laughing heartily, glad that everything had ended so well, striding forward like the whole city belonged to them – and perhaps tonight it did, but D'Artagnan wasn't so sure. Athos hadn't spoken to him, beyong acknowledging that he was alive, and for a moment he had thought that the musketeer might have been worried for him; but he had probably been wrong. Maybe it was surprise that had given this edge to his voice in the tunnels, not relief.

Even now, walking in step with him, Athos didn't speak, didn't even look at him. D'Artagnan looked at him from under the rim of his hat, trying to decipher his expression, but in so doing he rubbed the wound on his head against his hat, and winced at the sharp pain. Blood was soon running down his brow again, and he cursed, taking off his hat and trying to wipe the blood with his shirt. It would be a pain to wash out the stain.

“Here, take this.”

He raised his eyes, surprised, to find Athos had stopped beside him and was offering him large linen handkerchief. When he didn't react immediately, the musketeer rolled his eyes and seized his wrist, pressing the linen against the wound himself. D'Artagnan let him, not really knowing how to react. Did Athos think he was just a boy, who needed tending? He should have been angry, but at least the other man was looking at him now, and had said something, which was probably an improvement.

“We should have cleaned this earlier. Hold the kerchief to the wound until we get to the tavern, we will ask for water there”, Athos ordered him with a stern look. D'Artagnan nodded and raised his hand to the slightly coarse fabric, his fingers brushing against those of Athos. Then the musketeer started forward again, and he followed, trying to understand if Athos actually cared, or just felt responsible for him.

When they joined Aramis and Porthos, already sitting at their usual spot in the tavern, there was a pitcher of clean water waiting, which Aramis pushed in their direction with a raised eyebrow.

“I've had them boil it. Your first wound for the musketeers, D'Artagnan! How do you like it?”

“I thought it would be worse”, he answered with a laugh, sitting down and gingerly taking the handkerchief off his brow. The blood seemed to have stopped, and really, he didn't know how he had managed to reopen the wound with his hat. Athos wordlessly took his handkerchief back, and dumped it in the water before slowly wiping the wound clean. D'Artagnan held his breath, feeling Athos' fingers on his head, the tingle of the dirt being brushed out, the coolness of the water. A goblet was pushed in his hand, but he didn't take his gaze off Athos' focused face until he stood back, shaking his handkerchief before handing it to D'Artagnan, his gaze unreadable.

“Keep it until we get you back to Madame Bonacieux, in case it starts bleeding again. And you really should start having one with you at all times. It's dangerous lives we lead.”

“Does that mean I will be involved with the musketeers again?”

Porthos snorted and Aramis mumbled something that sounded very sarcastic to his ears, but he didn't pay attention. Athos was shaking his head, but their was a smile on his face, as genuine as the one he usually reserved for his friends. He lay a hand on D'Artagnan's shoulder and inched slightly closer.

“I think you will, unless you choose not to. You are one of us now.”

D'Artagnan smiled at that, probably the brightest, most childish grin ever, and clasped his hand on top of the one Athos still had on his shoulder. He didn't know what to say, was speechless for once, and so he said nothing, but Athos' smile just got wider, as if he knew what D'Artagnan felt.

“A toast, I think!” Aramis announced, and they all raised their glasses, Athos sitting back in his chair. The Gascon felt the loss of his presence keenly somehow, and he nearly frowned in confusion, but they were all three looking at him, and Porthos was saying “To D'Artagnan, and a job well done!”, and he smiled and drained his glass at that.

Yet later that night, when he lay in bed, trying to sleep, it wasn't Constance's earnest words to him, or the mystery of those flowers, or even the warmth of having his three friends defend and vouch for him that played in his mind; it was the depth there had been to Athos' gaze when he had looked at him and pronounced him one of them, and the way he had relished the closeness of the other man. It was confusing, but he guessed it had to be a good feeling, because he had hardly been able to stop smiling all night; and he fell asleep with a smile on his face and another, rare one in his thoughts.


	3. Commodities

Commodities

 

Athos awoke with a start and a strangled shout. It took a moment for him to remember that he was in his lodgings, in Paris, safe or as safe as he would ever be. He slowly wiped sweat from his face, trying to get rid of the images in his mind – but there was no getting rid of them, except perhaps in drink, and he hadn't had nearly enough of that in the last few days. He blamed it on d'Artagnan, really: he was always with them, and somehow his company seemed to improve Athos' mood so much he didn't feel the urge to drink his way to oblivion at night.

Except that, of course, there was no bright smile to make his mornings better. Athos shook his head and went in search of the bucket he left outside his window for the bad mornings. Usually, it was reserved for the mornings when a headache was pounding on his head, but today was worse, and he wasn't sure cold water would really help.

Still he went through the routine movements of his bleak mornings, dressing and warming up, feeling the pull of his muscles slowly dragging him out of his nightmares. He was about to put on his hat when there was a knock on his door, and he raised an eyebrow before going slowly to the door, a hand on the handle of his main gauche, wondering who it could be. Aramis and Porthos usually didn't come to get him, and not many others knew where he lived.

When he opened the door, he found d'Artagnan, hunched forward with his hands on his knees, obviously trying to regain his breath. He raised his head and threw a pained smile his way, before an angry shout down the stairs etched panic on the boy's face and he pushed his way inside before slamming the door behind him. Odd.

“What have you done, this time?” Athos asked with a sigh. Were all Gascons incapable of living a quiet life? So far, there had hardly been a day in which d'Artagnan did not succeed in angering someone, usually involving all three musketeers – which was probably why he was still alive, though he seemed to be lucky by nature.

“Nothing, really. An accident. Well, not really, but...” d'Artagnan stopped and fell silent, wincing, when what sounded like three or more people rushed past up the stairs. Then, when he caught sight of Athos's unimpressed expression, he went back to explaining with a sheepish smile.

“There was this man, well this boy really, who had the thickest Gascon accent I have ever heard – those two men were mocking him, and he was in no position to defend his honour really, so I thought to lend him a hand. Fellow countryman and all that, you understand.”

“I suppose they didn't take kindly to your defending him?”

“Well – they called out, and all of a sudden they seemed to be four or five. I proposed a duel, between gentlemen, but – they didn't accept.”

“Let me guess”, Athos said with a wry smile. “They were not gentlemen, probably thugs, and they seemed to prefer beating you bloody to duelling.”

Outside, they heard steps on the stairs and grumbling. Probably the thugs themselves, giving up on their chase. These people were never quite patient. D'Artagnan winced again, and shrugged before slowly making his way to Athos's bed, where he sat heavily, holding his ribs.

“You're quite right.”

“And I suppose”, Athos continued while walking up to the Gascon and crouching in front of him, “the boy was nowhere to be seen by the time you realized you were outnumbered and not in favourable conditions to fight?”

“Well, he can't really be blamed for running away.”

Athos shook his head, but he knew there was a smile on his lips. Probably a fond smile. He couldn't help it, d'Artagnan was a bloody fool and would get himself killed one day trying to rescue a cat or something, but it was refreshing to find someone who still stuck with such ideals constantly.

“Learn to make the difference between gentlemen and common thugs, and maybe you will not get yourself killed stupidly. Gentlemen usually were swords, for one, will the common thug prefers a nice broad knife.”

Athos reached up and swatted away d'Artagnan's hand where it was pressed against his ribs, before pressing his own hand flat against his side, trying to assess whether he had anything broken. His friend seemed slightly uncomfortable, but he nodded when Athos looked up at him questioningly.

“I'm alright. Nothing more than a bruise, I think.”

Athos nodded in turn and rose, backing away. Perhaps he should have had him remove his coat and shirt, to make sure; there was no way he could feel any swelling or abnormal heat like this. But somehow, the idea of asking d'Artagnan to undress, on his bed, while they were alone, stirred some kind of awkwardness in him. He turned to pour them both a glass of wine, and handed d'Artagnan his before leaning against the table.

“How do you know where I live?”

“Oh, Aramis explained. Actually, I was coming to get you. Tréville wants us to go to Le Havre. We leave as soon as possible. Some man we need to escort back to Paris, his ship should arrive any day now.”

Athos drained his glass to hide a smile. Of course, even on such a simple errand, d'Artagnan would get into trouble. He had been lucky he hadn't been far from his lodgings; as lucky as he always was.

“Well, what are we waiting for? Let's get back to the garrison, before they start thinking you got lost.”

“I didn't!” D'Artagnan protested, before catching the smirk Athos sent his way and lowering his head with a half-smile. “Stop mocking me like this.”

“I? Never.”

“Ha, ha. If these men come back, I'll leave you to their clutches”, d'Artagnan threatened while stepping over the threshold, ushered out by Athos.

“You have me trembling with fear”, he answered, slamming his door closed and turning the key. “You do remember, though, that it's you they're after, and they probably won't have forgotten what you look like already?”

D'Artagnan shrugged, before yelping when Athos put his own hat on the boy' head. When he looked up past the hat's rim, he was so clearly caught between glowering and looking confused that the musketeer had to choke back a laugh.

“Sometimes the smallest change in clothing can work wonders in a crowd. But just in case, we'll take the back door. I don't feel like fighting so early in the morning.”

 

* * *

 

While they made their way to musketeers' garrison, d'Artagnan readjusted the hat. It was surprisingly soft, the leather well-worn, and smelled of gunpowder, dust and sweat. A lot like Athos, actually. Not of wine, though, as if the man had always taken care of his hat, even while drunk out of his wits – not that d'Artagnan had ever witnessed him that drunk, but from what Aramis and Porthos had alluded at times, it was common enough. It made him frown to think of it; he had trouble imagining why Athos, so level-headed, always in control, would want to drink so much. He had a feeling there was something more to it, something dark, but it wasn't his place to ask, and probably never would be.

“Oh, by the way, there's your handkerchief”, he said, pulling the linen square out of a pocket and handing it to Athos. “Thank you.”

“Have you asked the dear Madame Bonacieux if she could make you some of your own then?” Athos asked, looking at d'Artagnan's hand without taking the kerchief.

“No, not yet, I - ”

“Then keep it. I have plenty, and you're the one who tends to need it, from what I've seen.”

D'Artagnan pocketed it again, trying to fight the sullen expression he knew was coming onto his face. He couldn't help it if Vadim had seen fit to hit him hard enough to draw blood, and he didn't like to be reminded of that particular moment. He had really thought he was going to die, for a second, in this damp room, on his knees, failing the musketeers, failing France and the King. Of course he knew any of them three would probably have done a better job of it, he didn't need anyone rubbing it in.

“Have I upset you?” Athos asked, sounding strangely tentative for someone who was usually more used to giving commands.

“No! No, I – I just – I made a mess of everything, and...”

D'Artagnan was saved from further agony from his own lack of expressive skills when Athos stopped suddenly. There he was, standing in the middle of the street with his arms crossed and a cocked eyebrow – and was that a smile on his face, or was he imagining things?

“Moping, d'Artagnan? Doesn't really sound like you. You're usually more cocky. Or should I say self-assured?”

“I'm not moping!” the Gascon answered, indignant, before stomping away. He heard a soft chuckle from Athos, who was following, and had to resist the urge to turn and throw a glove to his face. Though it would give them another opportunity to duel, and he had wanted one ever since their first – and, sadly, only – time fighting one another.

“There was no mess, d'Artagnan”, Athos said at last, with a hand on his shoulder. “You did well, and you know it. Collateral damage is unavoidable. But you still should try and be careful. Rushing headlong doesn't always work.”

“Thank you... I guess? Somehow I have a hard time untangling compliments from rebukes with you”, d'Artagnan answered with a renewed grin. Athos just smirked.

“That's because you know you don't deserve the compliments, but you fish for them anyway.”

“Now, that's the Athos I know.”

Athos just shook his head, but there was a small smile on his lips. They kept walking in a comfortable silence, and soon they were at the doors of the garrison. D'Artagnan stopped, searching for Aramis and Porthos, when another man stopped by them, very nearly pushing into Athos's shoulder. D'Artagnan felt both men tense and looked on warily. The stranger was a musketeer, from his clothing; tall, rather fair, except for a scar on his cheek. He was watching Athos with a furious, even contemptuous gaze, but didn't say anything; instead, he turned to d'Artagnan.

“Know that musketeers usually have honour, and that we stand by our friends through danger and dark times. Do not feel obligated to those who betrayed you. They should have been sent away already.”

It took d'Artagnan a moment to understand what the man was talking about; and then he thought back to the charade of a few days past, and remembered that even the garrison had been told that his friends had betrayed him, to enforce the idea that he had no love for the musketeers. Perhaps this man hadn't been there when Tréville had explained it all to his men. Still, it hardly excused him, and the Gascon didn't understand why Athos had not challenged the man to a duel anyway.

“Do you mean to say, sir, that my friend here has no honour? Or that I am a weak fool, who wouldn't know friend from foe?”

The stranger frowned at d'Artagnan's sally, and hesitated for a split second.

“I just wanted you to know that there are some here you can trust. Do not judge the musketeers from the deeds of a few men only.”

“So it was both. I have half a mind to challenge you this instant”, d'Artagnan hissed. The other man recoiled visibly, surprised at the venom in the Gascon's tone. Maybe it was stupid, but he hated to have any of his friends talked of in that manner, especially after all they had done for him. And to have it be Athos, out of all three – well, somehow it was even worse, even though he couldn't explain why.

“D'Artagnan, please”, Athos intervened, going around the other man to put a hand on d'Artagnan's arm, yanking it down rather forcefully. “Meirac, you weren't here four days ago, were you? But you heard of Vadim?”

The other musketeer, Meirac, nodded rather reluctantly.

“Well, he was stopped thanks to d'Artagnan here, who agreed to be a spy for us. The duel was to get him in prison, and convince Vadim that he was no musketeer.”

Athos pinned Meirac with a calm gaze, and his voice had a tone of quiet, assured command. D'Artagnan raised his chin and looked at him, not eve trying to hide his anger, and Meirac finally looked back to Athos and nodded.

“My apologies, then, to both of you. I should have kept my opinions to myself in this matter.”

“No apologies needed”, Athos assured him with a nod of his own. “Come, d'Artagnan, Tréville doesn't like to be kept waiting.”

Athos started crossing the gate, and the other man moved out of the way; d'Artagnan held his gaze for a second, before nodding reluctantly and following Athos.

“That was hardly called for”, Athos remarked in a quiet, calm voice.

“I will not stand by and let you be insulted”, d'Artagnan answered heatedly. He could not understand why his friend had done nothing, when the slight against him had been so obvious.

Athos stopped suddenly, and the Gascon would have crashed into him if he had not wheeled around and caught his wrist in a tight grip, teeth gritted, an angry spark in his eyes.

“Do you think, then, that I am not able to defend my own honour? Would you insult me so, d'Artagnan?”

That was when he realised his mistake, but of course it was too late. D'Artagnan looked straight into Athos's furious eyes, never moving his arm from the fierce grip, trying to think of something to say, but finding himself as one under a spell. They stayed like that for a moment, inches from one another, locked in a world of their own, until Athos let him go suddenly with a sigh and took a step back.

“Do not confuse honour and arrogance. You will only bring trouble to yourself.”

“Sorry. I might have been... Overzealous.” D'Artagnan tried to look into his friend's eyes, earnestly sincere in his apology.

Athos let out a small huff, before turning once more.

“Come. Aramis and Porthos must be in Tréville's office already.”

 

* * *

 

The mission had seemed simple enough, at first glance, which had put Athos on his guard immediately. Nothing was ever easy. So he remained wary, and tried to concentrate on the mission at hand, stubbornly ignoring how close they were coming to his old home, and how it was wrecking havoc inside his heart. There was a time and place for this kind of reminiscences, namely his rooms at night with several bottles of wine, and he had a duty to uphold.

He was hanging by a thread already, and he knew it, when all hell broke loose. Just the attack would have been nothing, should have been nothing, and it took him a while to really understand the seriousness of Porthos's wound, so tense he was. He had sworn never to go back, but of course if there was one thing that could void this oath, it was such a situation. So he led them there.

He didn't regret it, not really, not when he could see the way Aramis visibly relaxed once he had stitched the wound. But still, he wasn't really with them any more, loosing himself in all those painful memories, trying his best to cast a semblance of normalcy in his outward behaviour, to prevent them all from guessing, from knowing what he was going through. He had thought he was getting better, he had thought he was getting his life back, ever so slowly, after those five years of hell; obviously he had been very wrong.

He was mildly grateful for Aramis and Porthos, who knew him well and realized when to leave him alone; but d'Artagnan, on the other hand, was stubborn as ever, and reacted about as well as he had guessed he would to not knowing why Athos was withdrawing from them. The musketeer took to walking the grounds after a while, to avoid them all, trying and failing not to let himself be drawn back to that terrible place, to the tree that stood on the hill like a sentinel, watching him, knowing what he had done.

The rest of their stay was a blur of action and tension, of trying to keep Bonnaire put, of trying to control Porthos, of being once more the voice of reason, the voice of duty. How he hated it, reminding them that duty came first and foremost, always. He would have given anything to let everything go, to tell Porthos that he could do whatever he wanted to Bonnaire, to leave this house, leave the musketeers, leave everything and never come back. Disappear in blissful oblivion. No more duty, no more.

That was the moment when his control snapped, when he gave up and started drinking, seeking oblivion. But he didn't find it, didn't deserve it; he only found more pain, as always. A glimpse of her body in their bed, the sound of her laugh echoing through a corridor, far away and yet so close, a pearl button under the tree where it had all come to an end – how had it stayed there all this time, he didn't know, he wasn't even really sure whether it was real or his imagination again.

He knew that d'Artagnan was trying to reach him, and he felt that if he let him, perhaps the Gascon could have reached him through the veil of his misery, and pulled him through to the other side. There was no smile on the boy's face, only worry and confusion, yet he knew, deep down, that if he only talked to him, he would smile at him once more; but he didn't deserve it. He couldn't let himself be saved, because he couldn't be saved. He would only pull the other man down under, with him, and ruin everything once again. So he walked away, leaving d'Artagnan behind him, not looking back. It was time he face his demons, time he let himself be consumed by them, once and for all. No holding back. And perhaps, perhaps, at last he would have peace.

One way or another.

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan was uneasy. Their journey to Le Havre had started well enough. He had feared his interactions would be strained, but apparently the other man had forgiven and forgotten his outburst at the garrison, and they had conversed as always, banter bouncing back and forth between the four of them, even a quick lesson from Aramis when they had stopped on the road to water their horses and buy something to eat.

But then, ever so slowly, Athos had estranged himself from the rest of the group. It had been hardly perceptible at first, and it had taken d'Artagnan some time to realize that his friend was growing colder, more rigid. And when he led them to his childhood home, when he revealed his noble origins, the Gascon thought that perhaps it would be a good opportunity to learn more about Athos – but really, he should have known better.

He was starting to know his friends. Aramis was all smiles, witty exchanges, and talk of the women; but there was a depth to him that d'Artagnan had had few occasions to glimpse, but which was definitely here. He was not exactly secretive; he just seemed to prefer to learn more about people around him, and usually found ways to listen rather than talk about himself. Porthos was rather more open, and though he rarely volunteered information about himself, he didn't hide it either, and there was no skilful avoiding of questions with him. It was like he was making it a point to be proud of his own past.

Athos, on the other hand, rarely talked about things that were not directly related to their work, and when he did, it was never about himself. And even though Aramis and Porthos had apparently shared a lot with him, and they had spent years fighting together and trusted one another to an extent d'Artagnan was envious of, he had apparently never seen fit to talk to them of his own past.

Talking to him was like pulling teeth out during the time they spent at his mansion, but still d'Artagnan tried. It hurt in a rather unexpected way, to see Athos drawn away like this, when he had always been relatively open with him, always willing to talk to him. He tried to push past the hurt, instinctively understanding that there was something off with Athos, and that know was not the time for him to start behaving like a jealous child.

He had only half his mind on everything he did while they stayed at the de la Fère mansion, always trying to keep Athos in the corner of his eye, trying and failing to connect with him, to include him. So, when he was ordered to go back to Paris and leave Athos behind, he couldn't quite bring himself to obey entirely. Athos had not looked himself at all, more like a feverish man, half dazed. He didn't understand how Aramis and Porthos couldn't see that, and how they could leave him in that state.

So he rode back, and when he arrived in the village and saw the commotion, the women assembled in front of the smithy, the body laid out under a shroud, his disquiet grew even more, and he urged his horse into a full gallop, eager to reach the house and possibly laugh his worries away at the sight of Athos, probably half-drunk and pissed off that he hadn't followed his orders.

Yet it was not to be so, and when he caught a glimpse of the house in flames, he thought his heart would stop beating completely. When his horse stopped suddenly, afraid of the heat and flickering flames, he rushed down and towards the house, hardly realizing he was calling Athos in a cracking voice. He saw a fleeing figure on horseback, but didn't have time to pursue it – Athos was probably in there, and he could only hope he was not dead already. He rushed in, unaware of any danger, fear and tension overflowing his veins and pushing him onwards, until at last he found the slumped form of Athos, half-unconscious but apparently unharmed.

When he had gotten them both out at last, he hastened to get his skin of water and pour some onto Athos's face, only then seeing the scrape and burn on his brow; he let his hand linger around the red skin a few seconds, but Athos did not seem to feel it at all. He smelled like wine and his speech was slurred, as if he had been drinking heavily, but he was pale and shaking, as if something uglier had taken place before d'Artagnan found him.

The Gascon listened with growing confusion and then dread the tale fall, sentence after anguished sentence, from Athos's lips. Athos was clutching him as if fighting not to drown, and he tried to offer comfort and protection, to ground him, holding his shoulders firmly, until the other man withdrew and let himself fall onto the ground, dazed.

“What do I do now?”

D'Artagnan did not know how to answer that question, was still trying to process all that had just been revealed; so he simply inched his way forward until he could hold Athos again, and took him in his arms. It was tentative at first, d'Artagnan expecting to be pushed away once more, but it seemed the musketeer was beyond tired, and he let himself be held, let himself fall back into d'Artagnan's embrace, a dead but strangely comforting weight. Soon he was asleep, the shock and fumes pulling him under, and still the Gascon held on, watching the old house burn to the ground, making sure the fire didn't catch elsewhere, checking that no one was coming up the road again, that no ghost would try to prise the man from his grip.

He stayed awake all night, occasionally waking Athos up to check that the wound to his head had not done any serious injury and keeping a paranoid watch on the road and on the fire. Athos seemed feverish, but it seemed to mostly be the wine and the shock, and he swiftly fell back asleep, his grip on d'Artagnan's coat never loosening. When dawn came at last, the fire seemed to be dying out, leaving only the empty hull of the house. Athos woke by himself and d'Artagnan saw that it took him a second to get his bearings, frowning and bleary-eyed. When remembrance hit him, he lurched away from the Gascon and threw up violently on the blackened grass, until he was heaving on air. D'Artagnan stood by him, trying to hold his hair away from his face, tracing soothing circles on his back.

“It was real, wasn't it?” Athos asked at last, lying back down, not looking d'Artagnan in the eye.

“Yes”, the Gascon answered, kneeling next to him. “Athos – I'm sorry.”

Athos rose slowly and turned to d'Artagnan, suddenly seizing the front of his coat, a dangerous glint in his eyes.

“Don't you dare pity me. I may be worthless, but this I will not have.”

“It's not – I didn't mean that. Please. Forgive me.”

Athos let him go with a laugh that sounded hollow and made d'Artagnan cringe.

“Forgive you? I am a dutiful man, not a forgiving one. Do not ask what I cannot give.”

Not knowing what to answer to that, d'Artagnan remained silent, watching the other man, who was looking at the ruins of his home with a bitter smile. But behind it, there was an expression that made d'Artagnan think of that time after their first meeting, when their timely arrival had saved him from execution; he had not seen his face then, but he heard his voice, cracking underneath the fury to leave place to despair. Now he had a good idea of what Athos must have looked like, on that day which seemed so long ago.

“I can hardly understand what you went through – but maybe I can help? Is there anything I can do?”

Athos looked back at him, and there was no more despair or sorrow in his eyes – only emptiness.

“Yes. Leave me alone. Go back to Paris, back to your life, and never look back.”

D'Artagnan felt as though he had been punched at the sheer hollowness in Athos's voice, and resolutely shook his head.

“You ask me the only thing that I cannot give you. I left you once when you asked, and you nearly died. I will never leave you again.”

Athos was looking away, but the Gascon seized his chin, gentle but firm, turning his face to himself again. They stayed like that, silent and still, for what seemed an age; and then Athos seemed to slump, and with a sigh he said, “Do what you will then.”

D'Artagnan sighed in relief, and gathered the other man in his arms, relishing the feeling of him, alive and whole. Athos let him, and the Gascon even felt him lay his head against his shoulder, the tickle of his hair against his neck a sweet feeling.

All too soon though, Athos withdrew and stood, mumbling about going for a wash, and d'Artagnan looked on as he moved to the river farther away, frowning. He didn't understand why, but he hated to see the man go, hated to be parted from him – and this led him to linger on how good it had felt to have him in his arms, wrecked and weakened as he had been. This was not something he understood, something that felt strangely shameful but still good. He tightened his fists and stood up, going in search of their horses, resolutely avoiding his earlier thoughts and those strange, new feelings. He wanted to be well on their way to Paris as soon as possible, to get Athos away from this haunted, damned shell of a house.

 

* * *

 

At first his thoughts had been muddled by wine, his reactions unhindered by any self-consciousness; it had felt good to confide in d'Artagnan, to break down in front of him, let go of everything at last. It had felt even better to be held by someone, when he hadn't had that kind of meaningful contact with anyone in over five years. Always he had held himself aloof, away, careful in the relationships he engaged in, careful not to let himself get close enough to get hurt again. Even with Aramis and Porthos, he had tried – and failed, and when it had become clear they had become like new brothers to him, he had trashed against the bounds and tried to cut them away, until they had had t intervene and try to reassure him. He had failed, yes – but never quite as terribly as with d'Artagnan, he reflected on the way back to Paris.

Bonding so closely with Aramis and Porthos had taken him at least six months, maybe more, of relying on them constantly, of being there for them through calm and danger. Six months, and several more to gain enough confidence to let them in, at least a little, though he had never confided in them, never even told them his title. And then d'Artagnan had come crashing through every barrier he had spent so long carefully erecting, just by being in the wrong place, at the wrong time.

But it was even more than that, he was slowly realising. He had been half out his mind from the wine, the fumes, the despair and the guilt, yes – but even had he not been, he wasn't sure he wouldn't have confided in the boy. There was something, something he could not really understand, between them, something that seemed to make Athos more open than he had ever been. Worse even: d'Artagnan, with his frank smile and straightforward manners, d'Artagnan who had stayed and held him, seen him through one of the worst nights of his life – d'Artagnan was giving him hope. Hope for himself, for his redemption, for his future.

So he tried to cut him off, as he had done so many times before – tried and failed even more abysmally than with Porthos and Aramis. It had taken them days of stalking, arguing, bribing and finally a punch to his jaw – from each of them – before he had even started really talking to them again. It had taken d'Artagnan all of two minutes, one sentence and a decided face. Oh, and a warm embrace – so warm he had felt cold for hours afterwards, and was just beginning to feel himself again, just a few minutes from Paris. He refused to think about it.

As a matter of fact, he refused to think about any of it. This was the only way, he knew: he would not be able to function properly if he allowed himself to mull over the night and try to understand all that had happened. He carefully avoided her face, her presence, her words, any hint of her that haunted the back of his mind. He would allow himself time to think all the scene through, but not now. Later, when he was alone, and possibly with a good quantity of wine. Probably, actually.

“Athos?”

D'Artagnan's voice brought him abruptly back to reality. It had been an awkward ride, both of them silent, him positively brooding. The Gascon looked worried, and Athos had to keep a sigh to himself.

“Are you – will you be alright?”

“Yes, d'Artagnan”, he answered with a small smile. Just seeing the boy's searching, nearly imploring eyes was enough to lighten his spirits a bit. “I will be fine. Don't worry.”

“Just – if you need anything, I'm here.” D'Artagnan paused, before adding, “I'm always here.”

Athos heard the “for you”, better left unsaid, and nodded, more touched than he would have thought a few weeks ago.

“Thank you. I will not forget.”

Then he spurred his horse forward, putting and end to the conversation. He would remember, yes – and he dearly hoped he would be strong enough to resist the temptation, strong enough not to drag the Gascon in his problems. D'Artagnan was so young, so hopeful and lively, while Athos belonged only in the inferno that his life had become, in the flames that had nearly consumed him. He was still not entirely sure he wouldn't have preferred dying; but now, he had no choice. He had to live and to fight, to make it to the next day – he owed it to d'Artagnan. The thought was at the same time agonizing and strangely calming, and he tried not to linger on it. He had duties to complete, and he was, after all, a man of duty.

 


	4. The Good Soldier

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the age that passed since the last chapter. Life interfered. I will still try to finish this work, though I can't really promise anything I guess!

D'Artagnan looked in grim silence as Athos emptied glass after glass of wine. He didn't have the heart to begrudge his friend the oblivion he was seeking. After all that had happened at his mansion, he certainly deserved it. But it had been a week since this whole fiasco, and Athos seemed to be getting worse. Aramis and Porthos did not react; they just exchanged glances from time to time, and d'Artagnan had seen Aramis look at him with shrewd eyes, as if he was evaluating him. Was he judging him, to see if they had to intervene in the matter and help Athos themselves? D'Artagnan would have welcomed it for certain: they knew him better, and he usually let them in, while half of the time, he just pushed the Gascon away or avoided him.

But whatever Aramis had seen in him had obviously satisfied him, because neither him nor Porthos made a single move to question Athos's excessive drinking and brooding. So d'Artagnan was alone in this. And he had not the hint of an idea about how to help a man who had condemned his own wife to death, been consumed by guilt for five years, only to find out that she was alive when she tried to burn his home to the ground, and kill him while she was at it. He could hardly comprehend what Athos must have gone through, must still be going through; how was he to help?

But he had to do something. He sighed, and rose from the table with his glass, nodding to Porthos and Aramis before making his way to the corner where Athos was slumped. He sat and raised his glass, and Athos clanked the rims reluctantly after a few seconds.

“Something to tell me, boy?”

D'Artagnan frowned. There was that, too: Athos had not once called him by his name since they had arrived in Paris and gone their separate ways after the fire.

“Nothing much. How have you been? I seem to be having trouble finding you at the garrison those days.”

Athos shrugged and drank.

“Working. Training. Preparing the arrival of Savoy.”

D'Artagnan nodded. “Tréville told me. At the palace tomorrow afternoon, is it?”

Athos raised his head all of a sudden at that, frowning fiercely. “Tréville told you? What for?”

“Well, I will be coming with you.”

“No.”

D'Artagnan had to restrain himself from physically recoiling. What was that for? Had he not proven, time and time again, that he was worthy? Tréville himself had explained that he trusted him, and even implied that he considered him part of his regiment even though he wasn't. Was it not enough for Athos?

“Would my presence be such a burden?” he asked, carefully controlling his voice to give nothing away, waiting to see what the musketeer had to say.

Athos just looked away. “Of course not. It's just – forget it.” He emptied his glass before rising up, his stance not very balanced. “I'm going back. Report on time tomorrow.”

D'Artagnan remained where he was, dumbfounded, for a moment, just looking at Athos's retreating back until he was out of the tavern. What was wrong with him? Was he regretting letting d'Artagnan in on his secrets? Could it be why he was avoiding him? Or perhaps seeing him was too much of a reminder of that terrible night.

Whatever it was, d'Artagnan would have none of it. He rose and followed, not even looking back to say goodnight to Aramis and Porthos.

Outside, the air was cool and crisp, smelling like food, wine, unwashed bodies and refuse, as always. He was getting used to it. He was also getting used to navigating the small streets after dark, avoiding bumping into anyone, keeping an eye out for trouble, and he soon caught up with Athos, who seemed to be having a hard time keeping his balance. Not exactly surprising given how much he had had to drink, even by his standards.

He caught him by the arm just when the musketeer was about to topple over, a joke on his lips – but it disappeared when he found the tip of a dagger on his throat, Athos looking at him furiously from behind the handle, as though he did not recognise him – or did not care. Neither moved for a while, stuck where they were, d'Artagnan holding his arm, Athos half turned; they stared at one another, and the Gascon was struck by how pale the other man looked under the moonlight. He looked like a ghost – but a fierce one, and dangerous. It was slightly frightening, but mostly entrancing. His lips stood out, stained red by the wine. D'Artagnan licked his own before taking his gaze away, carefully avoiding the place where his thoughts had just strayed. It was the wine, he told himself, but still he carefully kept his eyes on Athos's own afterwards.

At last Athos lowered his dagger and allowed himself to be dragged to a standing position.

“Are you mad? I could have killed you”, he rebuked d'Artagnan, but there was no heart in it.

“And I guess that's all the thanks I get for not letting you dirty your clothes again. You drank too much, Athos.”

“If you have come to play mother hen, you can go back.”

D'Artagnan felt his temper rise at that, and closed in on the other man. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew this was a bad idea, he knew Athos could probably defeat him even in the state he was in, he knew strange things tended to happen when they got that close – but he couldn't have cared less. He was tired of this game they seemed to have been playing, without him knowing the rules.

“You could at least be courteous, if not grateful. Or is it that it stings too much, to have been saved by me of all people? Would you rather I had left you behind as you had ordered, is that it?”

Athos remained silent and just looked at him from beneath his hat, his expression unreadable. After a few seconds of tense silence, d'Artagnan shoved him away with a grunt and stepped back.

“If you won't even talk to me, I'm off. Have a good night. Try not to get yourself killed, even if it's what you want.”

With that he stalked off without a backward glance. He had had enough of Athos for the night, and besides the man had made it clear that he did not want his company. They had both had too much to drink, yes - but sometimes drink only revealed what politeness preferred to hide and smother. Apparently Athos did not care for his help – why would d'Artagnan give it, again and again, where he was obviously unwanted? He would not be that sort of fool.

And yet, he did not go farther than fifteen steps before he came to a slow and reluctant halt. Athos was annoying, aggravating even, too proud and and secretive for the Gascon to always understand him; but still, he was a friend, at least of sorts. And d'Artagnan could only try to imagine the amount of grief he must have been going through since his wife tried to burn his home, and him with it. D'Artagnan was proud of his temper; he viewed it as the mark of an honourable spirit, unimpeded by considerations for such things as his safety or society, things that to him only stood in the way of what was honourable and good. But just this once, he realized that if his temper meant Athos got hurt, he would not be able to forgive himself.

So, he gritted his teeth and turned back. He caught up with Athos soon enough, slowed down by alcohol as he was, but he stayed well behind. Close enough to intervene if need be, but out of sight from the man himself. He followed him like this all the way to his lodgings, nearly rushing in when a threatening hunk of a man drew too close – but a word and a look from Athos sent him scampering off like a child, and d'Artagnan smiled and relaxed his grip on the handle of his sword. At last Athos stopped before the door of the building he lived in, and started rummaging in his pockets for the key. D'Artagnan waited, wanting to make sure he was safely inside before leaving for a well-deserved rest.

He saw the man find his key, and drop it with a muffled oath. Athos bent down to pick the offending key – but d'Artagnan's eyes widened in surprise when the other man slumped down on the ground, his shoulders shaking, a fist thumping repeatedly on the wall above his head. He nearly went to him then, aching with the need to make it all better, to relieve him of at least a small part of his sorrow; but he couldn't, of course. He was nearly sure this would have broken their tentative friendship irremediably, and it was the last thing he wanted. So he bit his lip and stayed perfectly still, holding his breath.

Athos got back up soon enough, rolled his shoulders and opened the door without even fumbling with the lock, as he should have given his state. Then the door closed behind him, and d'Artagnan sagged against a wall with a relieved sigh. He watched the window for a little while, but Athos didn't light a candle, and there was nothing to be seen; so in the end he started back towards Constance's home, mulling over the whole scene. He had never seen Athos cry, not even that terrible night; he hadn't even thought Athos could cry. It was foolish, but still he was shaken by what he had just seen. Yet, what could he do? He wanted to help him, wanted it with an intensity that surprised him, but he had no idea how to achieve it.

He went to bed with muddled thoughts, no closer to knowing how to bring Athos out of the hole he seemed to be sinking into; but on the morrow, in the palace gardens, the musketeers seemed as steady and cool as ever, and d'Artagnan was soon made to focus on other, more pressing matters.

 

* * *

 

 

Athos was uneasy.

He had been ever since this whole business with Savoy had started. Aramis was withdrawn and broody, Porthos was obviously worried about him, and d'Artagnan – he hardly knew how to deal with him anymore. He had decided to do better with himself, yes, but he had also decided that he would not drag the boy into his problems, which was proving rather complicated. For one, the Gascon seemed to want nothing more than to remain by his side day and night, which was aggravating – he did not need a keeper, and he had bit back harsh words more times than he cared to remember in the last few days.

And now, he was standing in Tréville's office, listening as the captain hissed at d'Artagnan. Usually he would have thought Tréville too harsh in his sarcasm, but now he was too concentrated on restraining himself from fuming. D'Artagnan was lying, that was for sure; he was far too calm while admitting a supposed mistake.

So when he confronted him at the gate, he was hardly surprised to find there was something indeed; but he was more than relieved when d'Artagnan actually volunteered to tell them the truth. And while he followed the group to Madame Bonacieux's house, he reflected that he had come to trust d'Artagnan as much as his friends. Perhaps even more; but he did not know if it was because the Gascon was always so open, or because of something else.

The meeting with Marsac did nothing to improve his day, but he hadn't expected anything else. The man was clearly untrustworthy; perhaps he had once been a good soldier, but those days were long over. And when the man dared to imply he didn't care about other musketeers, he didn't even think twice before returning the insult, itching for a reason to fight. His frustration was mounting, and he desperately needed an outlet for it.

Of course, he had to be reasonable, for Aramis's sake; but it got harder with every passing moment, as Marsac showed time and time again the low he had fallen to. He was no better than a common thug now, and there was a madness in his eyes that made him wary. He watched as the tension grew in between them all, as the former musketeer antagonized all of them, one by one. Only Aramis seemed impervious to the darkness that seemed to seep out of his every word, which was hardly surprising given the bonds they had shared.

He walked out in the streets with a turmoil of feelings which were becoming too hard to suppress. He was uneasy about the whole thing, worried about Aramis, and though he believed Tréville to be innocent, he still could not shake off a budding doubt – and it unnerved him.

He followed d'Artagnan, Porthos and Marsac back to the Bonacieux's house after warning Aramis. The Gascon was hanging back, apparently waiting for him, and Athos felt his already abused temper begin to fray.

“You do realize I can find my own way?”

D'Artagnan's step faltered, but he didn't say anything immediately; then, in a low voice:

“If even my companionship is that much of a burden, I will desist. My apologies.”

Before Athos could reply, he accelerated his pace and was soon level with Porthos. Athos tightened a fist and gritted his teeth, but he didn't say another thing to d'Artagnan. This was what he wanted, he told himself.

Yet why did it feel so wrong?

 

* * *

 

 

D'Artagnan was brooding while packing his meagre belongings in his saddlebags. He didn't want to leave; but there had been such a cold, resolved fury in Constance's eyes that he didn't dare disobey. Everything seemed to be going from bad to worse those days; first the fire, then this whole affair with Marsac, which seemed to be poisoning everything he came close to. Athos was growing colder towards him, and he was at his wit's end. He had no idea what to do about it, and was starting to give up on his friend, though it rent his heart in two. It nearly seemed logical that he would now loose one of his best friends in Paris, and the place he was coming to consider a home.

He threw a shirt in his bag with more rage than strictly necessary, squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth to prevent a scream of frustration to leave his throat. Everything seemed to be spiralling out of his control, and it reminded him too much of what like to watch his father die in his arms. He was powerless, and he hated it.

He remained still for a while, holding back tears, the face of his father now the only thing he could see. He had not really grieved; first he hadn't had time, and then he hadn't let himself. Now that things were starting to go awry, it was as though a dam had opened, and all the grief bottled up was threatening to come out. He choke back tears, and wallowed for a while in his misery – until he remembered something his father had once taught him.

He had had a kitten when he was young, and they had been the best of friends of course; until one day the cat had had a bad fall and broken a paw. D'Artagnan had rushed to him, and tried to tend the wound; but the animal had hissed and scratched him so deep that his mother had had to stitch the wound closed. His father had handled the kitten; and later that night, seeing that his son was still pouting and even somewhat afraid of this companion, he had sat next to him.

“Do not hold it against him. Most beasts lash out when they are wounded; even men do. Sometimes, when you hurt, it becomes difficult to distinguish the good from the bad. But you are not hurt, and you can still think clearly. It's up to you to mend things, and to use your reason.”

D'Artagnan lowered his hands slowly. At the time, he had thought it was unfair that he had to be the reasonable one; he too was hurt. But all of a sudden he knew that his father had been right, of course. And though he could not rightly compare Athos to a kitten – he smiled at the thought – there was indeed something of a wounded animal in him when he lost himself in the stupor of drink. A fierceness and a sense of danger, coupled with the urge to hide his wounds. He had to be patient, and he could not give up, even if he was hurt himself.

He smiled slowly, before the sight of his packs lowered his mood again. Of course, things were even more complicated with Constance, because she was right: what he had done deserved her wrath. As if she had heard his thoughts, she arrived behind him, and he darkened.

He was surprised that their conversation went that well, and he undid his things gratefully when Constance allowed him to stay; he would have regretted having to leave. She was good company, and it had been long since he had felt such complicity with someone. There had been a girl, back at home; they had been close as brother and sister, until they had grown up – and then they had grown even closer, before realizing they were better suited as friends than lovers. However, their bonds had never been quite the same, and he had forever regretted the afternoon when she had first kissed him.

 

* * *

 

Athos had a hard time containing the shaking in his hands after their confrontation with Tréville. He did not believe Aramis and Marsac were right; but he couldn't deny to himself that Tréville was looking more suspicious by the minute. He gripped the banister and bowed his head, noting absent-mindedly that Porthos was going down the stairs, probably to go catch Aramis.

“There's something more to it”, d'Artagnan said from behind him. Athos shook his head, before letting go of the wood and standing straighter.

“I believe so, but I cannot be sure anymore. What do you think of the Musketeers now, I wonder?”

The question had escaped his lips before he could hold it back, and it seemed to take d'Artagnan aback.

“I think... That there's darkness everywhere. But darkness is not a stain, and what's in the past doesn't have to affect the present, much less the future. Even if Tréville made mistakes – now he's a good captain, and I'll still be loyal to him.”

“Yet a man who made a mistake is liable to make it again.”

“I don't think so. I think every man can make mistakes. And a man who has already made one is bound to be wiser, and more careful in the future. I still trust Tréville.”

Athos froze, not daring to look in his friend's eyes. He would not have expected such a speech from d'Artagnan, and he wondered how much of it applied to Tréville, and how much to it. Suddenly there was a movement, and he had to look up when the Gascon stepped right up to him, his expression serious and earnest.

“I realize you want to shut me out. I'm not sure why. But I want you to know that I'm not afraid of the dark. You are my friend, and there is nothing I wouldn't do for you. I will not leave your side when you need me the most.”

Athos stood very still, lost in d'Artagnan's dark eyes. There was a depth there that he had seen so few times he had wondered if he hadn't dreamt it. He drew a shuddering breath, more shaken by d'Artagnan's words than he would have liked to admit, and frowned.

“What do you know of the dark?”

“Less than you. But I know what it feels like to suffer so much you only want to forget.”

Athos scoffed, and the Gascon suddenly seized the front of his doublet, his eyes burning with fury.

“You do not know the life I led. But you do know that I lost my father a few weeks ago, that I could do nothing save avenge him. You're not a beast. Remember that everyone suffers.”

He immediately bit his lips and let go, as though he regretted his words, but he didn't take them back, remaining silent. Athos wanted to reply that it was different, that they could not be compared – but he too stayed silent. Perhaps the boy was right. Perhaps he had spent rather too long licking old wounds.

“Athos – you are my friend...”

It sounded halfway between a statement and a question, and the Gascon seemed torn. Athos felt old reflexes come to the surface. It would be easy to cut him off, to deny him the friendship he aspired and had the right to. Yet he recognised the urge, and remembered how Aramis and Porthos had warned him against it, time and time again – saw the determination hidden in d'Artagnan's eyes.

“Yes”, he breathed out, and sagged against the balcony, admitting defeat.

D'Artagnan smiled and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Thank you. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

And it was on Athos's lips to say that surely it meant more to himself than to the young man, but he kept it in, and merely nodded with a half-smile.

“You are too stubborn for your own good”, he couldn't help saying as a last parry; d'Artagnan smiled as though flattered.

“I should go back. I don't like leaving Constance with this Marsac.”

“You're right. I don't trust him. Go.”

With a nod, d'Artagnan started down the stairs and dashed across the courtyard, hunching under the pelting rain. Athos watched him go, thoughtful.

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan watched Athos carefully; they were back in the tavern of course, trying to cheer up Aramis and to forget what they had learnt and lost. Athos was drinking; but he seemed to be too occupied with the card game the were playing to wallow in his misery, as usual. D'Artagnan smiled.

“And what is that smile for?” Porthos asked with a wink. “Not the game I expect, because I can almost guarantee you're going to lose.”

“And how would you know?” d'Artagnan retorted, aggravated by his knowing smirk. The man was right of course, which made it worse; the Gascon didn't know if he was cheating, or merely extremely skilled. Probably both.

“Now, Porthos. Do not look so proud of yourself. Even I know that he's going to lose. I've never seen a man with such bad luck at cards,” Aramis intervened with a large smile.

“Well, you know what they say. Unlucky at cards, lucky in love.”

“It's the other way round. Rather different.” replied Aramis while Porthos chuckled.

D'Artagnan threw his cards on the table and crossed his arms.

“Fine. I know there's nothing I can do. This round is on me then! But I will be getting back now.”

He got up and stretched while Porthos and Aramis turned his cards and snickered. Athos set his cards and stood.

“I will go too. Good night.”

They said their goodbyes, and got out of the inn. D'Artagnan tried to breathe in the fresh air to relieve his mind clouded by drink, but he had forgotten that the air of Paris was not particularly fresh, and he started coughing. A few pats on his back alerted him to Athos's presence.

“Thank you”, he croaked when the fit was over.

They started walking in silence, until d'Artagnan couldn't take it anymore.

“I'm sorry for Aramis.”

“He doesn't need your pity”, Athos answered with a shake of his head.

“It's not pity. I just wish he didn't have to go through this. Marsac – what happened to him was ugly, and unfair.”

“It was”, Athos answered after a beat of silence. “But we cannot decide what fate we have to endure, only what we will do when faced with it. What happened to Marsac was terrible; but other men have weathered through worse, and not become assassins.”

“So you condemn him?” d'Artagnan asked, his voice indignant. Athos remained silent a while.

“What he went through is no excuse for what he had become.”

“Perhaps not. But at least I understand.”

Athos shook his head, but he didn't try to argue further. D'Artagnan simply smiled, happy to have the last word for once – though he knew his friend was not convinced. They kept walking in silence, but it was a comfortable silence, as if they were both getting their bearings. At last they arrived at the crossing where they were to part ways; d'Artagnan nodded and was about to go on, when Athos stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“D'Artagnan. I...” He stopped there, not really sure what to say. He meant to thank the man, for standing by him; but that was not something he really knew how to do.

Thankfully, d'Artagnan nodded and put his own hand on top of his where it lay on his arm.

“I – you don't have to...”

“But I do. Thank you. For everything.”

D'Artagnan nodded, his eyes suspiciously shiny in the moonlight, and Athos squeezed his arm before letting go. There was a lump in his throat and he could feel his old demons raging in the back of his head, urging him to let go, that he didn't deserve having someone for himself like that. He shook his head, then nodded with a hand on the rim of his hat, and swiftly walked away. For tonight, he would try to shut away his demons, and to chase the usual darkness from his mind – if he couldn't get rid of the Gascon, the least he could do was try to get better for him. Try not to taint him.

He turned briefly back at the end of the street; the other man was still standing where he had left him. He hesitated, then raised an arm in salute; d'Artagnan raised an arm also and waved, sweet like a child, bringing a smile on Athos's lips and a warming tenderness to his heart. Then they each went their ways, and the night did not seem so dark for once.

 


	5. Homecoming

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! I'm back, earlier than I believed possible, thanks to all of you. You're great, and I give you all virtual chocolate for keeping me motivated via kudos and, most of all, reviews.
> 
> Hope you like this chapter; it was born through a lot of pain, calvados, but also encouraging reviews. A shorter chapter than usual, but well, this episode was centered on Porthos and mostly separated our two doves, so I'm working with what I've got here. Yes I call them doves (I'm a French writer, I do what I want).
> 
> As usual, sorry for any mistakes, I will give this whole fic a thorough re-reading once it's done and be ruthless with the grammar. By the way, looking for a beta reader, in case anyone is interested.
> 
> No promises for the next update, this would just be shooting myself in the foot. But the next chapter will come, I solemnly promise. Before six months. 
> 
> In the meantime, enjoy season 2!

The Homecoming

 

Porthos's birthday party was closer to what d'Artagnan knew than he would have expected – apparently, whether it be in the countryside or in Paris, a birthday meant good food, wine in quantity, general cheerfulness and a few mostly good-natured fights. He had joined in with the fun willingly enough, especially once an already jovial Porthos had pressed a glass of wine in his hand.

He searched immediately for Athos, and found him discussing something with a musketeer he didn't know; the look on his face was so bored that he snickered. The other musketeer, poor man, seemed to be oblivious, and blabbered on with a great amount of gesticulations. When Athos came dangerously close to receiving a face-full of wine from the other man's goblet, d'Artagnan took pity on him and walked up to them.

“Good evening gentlemen. Athos, Monsieur...”

There was a pause, and when it became clear that d'Artagnan was waiting patiently to be introduced, Athos sighed, covertly glowering at him, before condescending to present them.

“D'Artagnan, this is Jean du Maurac. Jean, Charles d'Artagnan.”

“Ah, the famous d'Artagnan”, Maurac said with the slightest drawl in his tone. “An honour to meet such a... Renowned gentleman.”

D'Artagnan frowned at that, trying to understand what warranted him such a sudden attack – and what the attack was, precisely. Though there was scorn undoubtedly hidden in the sentence, he couldn't exactly pinpoint it. He was about to respond in kind, when Athos intervened.

“I must have a word with Aramis. D'Artagnan, you had better come. Good evening Jean. It was a pleasure.”

Without waiting for an answer, Athos moved away, d'Artagnan following in his footsteps. Then Athos threw a glance over his shoulder and ducked in the shadows of the stables, pulling d'Artagnan by the arm.

“I would thank you for your timely arrival, except you didn't look so keen on helping me in the end”, he said with a raised eyebrow.

“Sorry,” d'Artagnan answered sheepishly. “I was curious as to what he could be telling you that looked so boring.”

“Maurac was a bore from birth, I believe he can't help it”, Athos simply stated with a roll of his eyes – but there was a small smile on his lips now.

“By the way, what was that at the end? Did I do something to him?”

Athos simply shook his head and leaned against one of the doors, raising a hand to scratch the muzzle of the horse who stuck his head out to investigate the human intruding on his resting place.

“Some of the men – let's just say every man's success will earn him equal measures of respect and jealousy from others. Some of the men have taken fault with your being attached to the regiment, despite not having earned your commission yet. Your implication with us and your personal talents are not helping matters any.”

D'Artagnan nodded. He had caught glances and stray words, and he knew that not every musketeer was glad of his presence.

“Don't worry though”, Athos said with a sigh. “More are glad to have another comrade to count on, and most bad tempers will be assuaged once you get your commission.”

“If I ever get it, you mean,” the Gascon said, trying and failing to mask the surliness in his voice. He didn't want to come out as a child, and he knew he had to be patient – it was just hard sometimes.

Athos raised an eyebrow at this and took a step closer, with a last parting scratch to the horse.

“Now, this is hardly like you.”

“You're right”, d'Artagnan said firmly, shaking himself mentally. “So... Personal talents? By all means, tell me more.”

Athos shook his head, but his smile was larger now, and there was a twinkle in his eyes.

“Surely you don't expect me to. Your head is quite large enough as it is, and it wouldn't do to provide Porthos with too big a target.”

“Provide Porthos... What?”

With a positively wicked smile, Athos slung an arm over his shoulders and started drawing him outside, all the while emptying his glass of wine.

“That should prove interesting. Don't worry, I was joking about the target part, it's exclusively between him and Aramis...”

Despite a slight worry about this new mischief his friends appeared to be up to, d'Artagnan relaxed against Athos's side, taking in the smell of leather, horse and wine. There was a warmth inside him that had nothing to do with the wine; and when Athos glanced at him from the corner of his eye and smiled once more, the Gascon mirrored his expression, feeling a faint blush spread across his face.

Actually, it was surely the wine.

 

* * *

 

Athos tried not to fall from his bed and groaned, the pounding in his skull seeming to intensify the more he awoke. He shifted as slowly as he could, and froze when his arm came into contact with something unusual. Something solid and warm. A sigh came from his side and he slowly turned his head, squinting suspiciously.

D'Artagnan was there. Sleeping with a content smile. A swift glance around the room confirmed that they were, indeed, in his own lodgings; lodgings which he had always made a point of keeping private, and in which none of his close circle of friends had ever spent more than a few minutes.

Well, evidently, up until some time during the night.

He slowly got up, rubbing his face to try and bring a little more clarity to his confused mind, but his memories were too hazy. He looked at d'Artagnan, who now had a frown on his face and was clutching the sheets. At least they both still had their clothes on.

He froze. Where had that thought come from? Of course they would still have their clothes on. It wasn't as if anything could happen – he quashed the thought firmly, driving his palms against his eyes. He then got up, narrowly avoided to fall when he stumbled on a hat – probably d'Artagnan's, though it looked somewhat like it could belong to Porthos – and went to open the window and get the mandatory bucket of water. It was not frozen anymore now that the weather was getting milder, with due thanks for small mercies, but it was still ice cold and he had to repress a shout when he emerged, his wet hair trickling down the back of his neck.

A whimper sounded behind him, followed by a strangled moan; he turned to witness d'Artagnan in the throes of some nightmare, his face anguished, flapping his arms around as though he was fighting some unknown opponent. He debated for a moment whether to intervene or not – he knew form first-hand experience how horrible nightmares could be, but he didn't want to embarrass the Gascon. He was proud, and surely he would not be too glad to have a witness to this weak moment.

But then another, louder moan was torn from the man's lips, and Athos made up his mind, sitting slowly on the edge of the bed. He laid a light hand on d'Artagnan's arm and shook it slowly, carefully; ready to jump out of reach should a punch come his way. He had tried to wake Aramis up from a nightmare once, and had sported a black eye for several days as a result of his carelessness. Aramis had shrugged it off with his usual smile, but he was quite sure d'Artagnan would not be so flippant about hurting a friend.

“D'Artagnan. Wake up. It's a dream.”

With a strangled shout, the Gascon jerked up, looking around with wide eyes, panting slightly.

“What...?”

“You were dreaming”, Athos said, getting up with faked nonchalance. There had been a well of hurt and despair in the boy's eyes, something he had never expected to find there, and he hated it.

“Oh.”

There was a beat of silence, and then a shuffling of fabric, and when Athos turned back d'Artagnan was lying down again, his eyes closed and his breathing already evening out. He shook his head disbelievingly, but couldn't help the small smile that stretched his lips. He then sat down again next to the boy and draped a blanket over him, before brushing away a stray lock of hair. He really was endearing at times, quite like a small pup.

He would have let him sleep the alcohol and nightmares off for the whole morning, had not a boy arrived with an urgent message from Aramis an hour later, telling them about Porthos's predicament. He swore and shook d'Artagnan awake once again, a bit more roughly this time, and tried not to find his sleepy eyes and the pillow marks on his face adorable. No time for that.

Why couldn't things be peaceful for once?

 

* * *

 

D'Artagnan had questions, too many questions, but it seemed his companions were content to just lead him about with hardly a word to explain what they thought about this whole mess. He didn't know what the court of Miracles was, he didn't know why Porthos would be rescued by ruffians straight from this hell hole of place, he didn't know how Aramis could be so sure their friend was entirely innocent (well, he was ready to trust Aramis on this at least, but a few reasons wouldn't hurt); and, most of all, he didn't know how he had ended up sleeping in Athos's bed. Probably with Athos. He seemed to remember drinking, and nightmares, and a soft voice and careful hands, but it was all very confusing.

And now, Athos was about to try and search for Porthos inside the Court, while he and Aramis were supposed to just go traipsing around making enquiries about highly dead and absolutely not dangerous corpses. He did not doubt Athos's remarkable fighting abilities; but who would not have been at least slightly worried?

“This is stupid. You're the Comte de la Fère. You'll never look like a beggar.”

Athos looked over his shoulder and flashed him a small, amused smile, before shrugging his shirt off. D'Artagnan let his eyes wander over the man's back, where a few scars were visible, some trailing to his sides. That was the back of a warrior indeed, and he blushed slightly, thinking about his own skin, marred only by the small scars acquired during village fights.

Athos turned, putting on a shirt that could have been green, once upon a time, but was now mostly tatters and splatters of mud. At least he hoped it was mud. The shirt certainly smelled like something else.

“Did you once guess I might be a Comte, before I told you?”

That made d'Artagnan pause. He had not really thought about it, but now it seemed to him he had always known Athos had to come from noble stock. And not low nobility either; there was something about the way he talked, about his calm and steady manners. He was about to say so, when Athos started to strip off his boots and breeches, and he closed his mouth with a nearly audible click.

“Could you pass those breeches over there? Thank you. Don't worry, d'Artagnan, it's not the first time I've played a role. I can handle it.”

D'Artagnan shook his head, looking everywhere but at Athos's backside as he stooped to pull the breeches on his legs.

“Fine, fine. But...”

He had been about to say “be careful”, but something stopped him. Perhaps the thought that Athos would not take it too well, and think he was insulting his abilities; perhaps the sudden thought that he was standing here, nagging at another, more experienced man, like his mother always nagged at him. Or like a lover would, his treacherous mind added, and he fought a blush. Where had that idea come from?

Athos looked at him from under a filthy hood, a single eyebrow raised. D'Artagnan looked back, dimly thinking that he was glad those blue eyes were not ice cold anymore; then Athos sighed, and prompted him with a “but...?”, and he suddenly remembered that he had been talking.

“Nothing. I will go find Aramis. We'll meet back here in a few hours?”

Athos nodded before striding out of the stables and into the courtyard, soon vanishing out in the streets. D'Artagnan walked out more slowly, and then cursed. He had meant to ask him why they had ended up together in his rooms, and forgotten all about it. He had to stop being so scatterbrained around that man. He was worse than a lovesick child.

The thought made a small shiver go down his back, and he shook his head vigorously before going in search of Aramis. They had a morgue to visit, and he had all those stupid thoughts to forget.

 

* * *

 

 

Athos swore internally as they rushed from the room, intent on reaching the Court before the appointed time. They would probably make it there in time, yes, but then there were the barrels of gunpowder to find, and they had no idea where those could be. Not even taking into account the probable hostility of the inhabitants. The situation wasn't looking too good.

But then, it never looked too good. He spared a glance to Aramis and d'Artagnan, one on each side of him, and felt glad to have such allies. Aramis looked like a hawk, intent on his prey and deadly in his single-mindedness; and Athos knew that whoever stood in between him and Porthos would find his life over, with the hiss of a blade his only warning. D'Artagnan looked grim, ready to kill for a friend, just as Athos expected.

But then he seemed to catch Athos's glance from the corner of his eye, and he turned his head just a little, just enough to look at him, and his lips held the hint of a smile, reckless and dangerous. This man was crazy and beautiful and wild, and it tugged at something within Athos's gut, something wild and light he had not known was there. He felt exhilarated, and for a few moments he let the adrenaline wash over him, drowning his careful composure.

Then the Court loomed over them and he slipped back into his usual concentration, shutting off his thoughts and his feelings to focus on the fighting and their surroundings. D'Artagnan might be wild when he fought, and it seemed to work for him; but Athos stayed calm and collected when he fought, and he knew this was what made him the best soldier in the regiment. He wasn't about to let a bit of adrenaline get the better of him, though he would have to think about where those feelings had come from.

Later.

At last it was all over and they had saved the day. Athos looked in satisfaction as Porthos made his goodbyes to a relatively good-looking Flea; he had thought she was underplaying her wounds when she had told him to go, but now he could see she was probably just hardened enough that being shot was not a big deal. He was impressed, and from the look on Aramis's face, he knew he was too, though he looked more reluctant. He did have somewhat of an exclusive relationship with Porthos, at times.

At last Porthos came back to them – purse-less, but whole and well – and they walked back out the Court with smiles on their faces. Athos was about to suggest going out for a well-deserved drink, but suddenly remembered that this whole chaos had started because of too much drink, and he bit his lips. He knew he was damn thirsty, but he cared enough for his friend to refrain from drinking his way to sleep if it could help.

At least for one night.

Thankfully, Porthos did not seem too traumatized by the events of the day; he slammed his arms on Aramis's and d'Artagnan's shoulders, with such strength Athos distinctly heard an “oomph” from them both. He smirked, glad to have escaped the tender ministrations of their bear of a friend.

“So. What do you say we go and grab something to eat, and more importantly, celebrate our victory of the day? I think I have a fancy for a drink. Provided you all watch out for me, of course.”

“Will do", Aramis replied with a sigh. "Provided you don't sneak out on us again. I never thought you could give me the slip like that.”

“That, my friend, is because you underestimate my cunning. Let's play cards tonight!”

“Oh, no", stated d'Artagnan firmly. "I'm not playing cards with you again. Ever.”

“Why? Scared you'll be ridiculous again?”

“No, I just find it unfair. I had better just give you all my money right now.”

“Are you implying I'm cheating?” Asked Porthos, stopping so suddenly d'Artagnan stumbled out of his grip.

“Well...”

“Gentlemen?” Athos intervened, stepping in between. “Less talking, more walking. I'm hungry and thirsty, and the tavern is not going to come to us.”

As they started forward again, d'Artagnan sent him a small nod and a sheepish smile behind their friends' back, and he touched the rim of his hat in answer, reflecting that he rather liked the dynamics of having a fourth member in their group, despite all the heartache the arrival of d'Artagnan had seemed to entail for him. He couldn't deny he rather liked the man, and though he had long been rather close to Aramis and Porthos, only now did he really understand what it felt like to be so close to a brother in arms.

And though he sometimes felt rather overwhelmed by it, he had to say it felt good. He would watch out and make sure they ended up in different beds and even different rooms tonight; but he knew that if he ever ended up having to wake the man up from a nightmare again, it would not be so bad.


	6. The Exiles

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aramis resolves to meddle, religion and matters of the heart are discussed - and some epiphanies are reached, to the discontent of everyone involved.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By now I'm not even sure I have even the right to apologize... But anyway, life, work and lack of organisation got in the way, as usual - or more so. I am sorry, but still not promising the next chapter will be faster - it seems to jinx me everytime, so... We'll see.
> 
> In the meantime, please enjoy.

Aramis had tried; God was his witness, he had tried really hard not to meddle. He might have a reputation as a gossip, and usually he did know most of what there was to know about the men in the regiment; knowledge was power, especially if it meant he could parry against a knife meant for his back. But he did make a point of trusting his closer companions, and thus he did not meddle in their affairs, and waited for them to give out information, of their own accord, instead of looking for it. It was, he thought, the difference between real friendship and simple acquaintance.

But they certainly were not making it easy. Not when he knew, from the messenger he had sent a few weeks ago, that d'Artagnan had spent a whole night in Athos's rooms. With Athos. Both drunk out of their wits. Not when Athos had gradually changed ever since the Gascon boy had come crashing into their lives.

So he stood by the sidelines with Porthos, uncharacteristically quiet, watching as the other two sparred in the courtyard. It was a rather calm morning, most men still asleep in their quarters or in the beds of Paris coquettes; a morning they liked to take advantage of to train in peace. D'Artagnan had stumbled in half an hour earlier, bleary-eyed and yawning; he usually looked like some sort of tired puppy in the mornings, which Aramis and Porthos found adorable – and they knew very well that Athos did, too, even though he never said a thing about it. There was a tilt to his head and a slight curve to his smile when he saw the Gascon that told them everything they needed to know.

D'Artagnan was good to Athos, that much Aramis was more than ready to admit. Ever since he had arrived, there had been a liveliness to their friend that they only saw at the best of times before. And after the incident at his property, after learning something about his past and glimpsing the depth of his despair... Aramis had believed that they would have to start all over again, hauling him to the surface, fighting daily to break through to him.

But d'Artagnan had succeeded in a matter of days, where it had initially taken him and Porthos closer to a year.

So, yes, Aramis recognised this bond between them – and that this bond was something good. But it didn't prevent him from feeling a faint dread when he watched the two of them interact. Athos smiled and laughed, and seemed more open every day, and he knew him enough to read him like a book, to realise things maybe the man himself didn't yet understand.

As for d'Artagnan – well, that was the thorny issue. He was so simple, yet at times revealed a more complex side to his character; he could still surprise them, and usually did at the least expected moment. They didn't know him, not well enough, not yet. And usually Aramis would have been content to let things run their course, to get to know him bit by bit, until they were all four united like brothers, because he felt it was only right. But not now, not with this bond between Athos and the boy. They were growing too close, too fast, and maybe it was good; but maybe d'Artagnan would surprise them again when they least expected it, and ruin all of this.

He couldn't know, yet he needed to know. Thus, he was forced to meddle.

Porthos chuckled next to him, forcing him out of his reverie with the warm sound of his laughter; Aramis raised his head, and smirked. Once more, d'Artagnan must have rushed just a little bit too much, and Athos had disarmed him and kicked him down; he was now sprawled in the mud, the tip of Athos's sword right under his chin, looking winded.

Then there was a glint in his eyes which gave the three of them pause; and in a smooth move, he threw out his legs, taking out Athos's balance and toppling him over. The poor man fell with a rather undignified yelp, letting go of his sword which skittered on the cobbles, out of reach. D'Artagnan immediately pounced, main gauche in hand, and held the blade right on Athos's neck, straddling him with a victorious smile on his lips.

This time Porthos roared in laughter, and even Aramis let out a few undignified snorts, triggered in particular by the surprised and mildly annoyed expression on Athos's face.

“I trust you're comfortable, but would you mind getting up now?” Athos finally asked, keeping a neutral voice. D'Artagnan cocked his head.

“Do you yield then?”

There was a beat of silence as everyone looked at Athos, waiting for his answer. Aramis would have expected a lazy “of course not”, slightly tinted with the arrogance Athos seemed to muster at will with the sole aim to annoy his opponents; but he remained silent, eyes fixed upon d'Artagnan, thoughtful. Finally, when Aramis was expecting him to concede _defeat_ , of all things, he bucked up and seemed to slither out from under d'Artagnan before twisting his hand until the boy dropped his dagger with a cry of surprise; then he had him down on the ground, one arm in his back, and his own main gauche against his neck.

Porthos slowly applauded, and Aramis joined in with an admiring whistle. D'Artagnan half-heartedly tried to trash a bit, snarling, but the point of the dagger against his neck stopped him, and he sighed.

“Fine. You win. Again.”

With the hint of a satisfied smirk on his face, Athos got up, letting go of d'Artagnan who rolled his shoulder a bit, working the joint with a small grimace. Athos stepped a bit closer and gently put a hand on the pained shoulder.

“My apologies, I did not mean to hurt you.”

D'Artagnan grumbled something, probably denying pain of any kind, and Porthos went to slap them both on the back with a smile. Aramis joined them a step behind, thoughtful. He didn't know much about Athos's past; but he had gathered enough to guess that he had loved and been betrayed, and that he now feared to open himself to anyone. Yet he did open to d'Artagnan. Aramis mostly thought it a good thing; but if things turned sour, he would never forgive himself for letting anyone untrustworthy too close to a broken man.

He had to quicken the process a bit, and learn to know d'Artagnan better. Just in case.

So when Tréville demanded two of them go out in the countryside to get a woman and her baby, probably the shameful offspring born of some nobleman's indiscretion, he immediately seized the occasion, and volunteered himself and the boy. This was going to be an interesting journey.

 

 

D'Artagnan fixed his eyes on the square, trying and mostly failing to remain calm and composed. He had thought that going out on this retrieval mission would be nice. It had not seemed too difficult, and Aramis was usually good company, of the sarcastic and humorous sort.

However everything had gone from bad to worse after they had found Agnès. She reminded him of his own mother at times: ready to do anything for her child, and possessed of a strength that seemed to come from a bottomless well somewhere inside her. But there was also a frailty about her that he had never seen in his own mother - but now could only suspect had always been there, well hidden from him, and it compelled him even more to help the poor woman. He felt terrible for her, and Aramis had been strange and more silent than usual ever since.

Agnès mumbled something indistinct before leaving them, probably to go relieve herself – or maybe to do something about her milk, which was apparently becoming something of a problem in the absence of a baby. Constance had glowered at him when he had asked, and he had not pried any further after that.

D'Artagnan rolled his head, trying to relieve the tension in his neck, and sighed.

“What is it?” Aramis asked with a glance.

“Nothing, it's just...” D'Artagnan trailed off, looking at the people who passed by, most of them completely oblivious to what was going on. “I can't believe people could be that cruel. To her husband, her family, even to her. I heard some of what she said to you last night”, he admitted when Aramis cocked his head.

“Alas... Too often are the different looked upon as a threat and hated”, Aramis said. His tone was light, as though he were just speaking of the weather; but his eyes were hard and his jaw set. “Even love can turn into a curse if it's not the right kind.”

There was something in his tone which made d'Artagnan look up, but the musketeer was not looking his way. He seemed to be talking about something else. Something more.

“Not the right kind of love? I wasn't aware there was more than one.”

“Really, d'Artagnan. I know you haven't been in Paris for long, but even in the countryside I'm quite sure such things happen. Man and woman, the Church says, but sometimes other arrangements are reached”, Aramis retorted, smiling affably. There was an edge to his tone though that d'Artagnan couldn't quite place; but he immediately felt rather insulted.

“I do know, thank you very much”, he replied acidly. “But I believe that love is love, whoever might be involved. And if some find it unappealing, then so be it; it does not change its nature.”

Aramis was about to reply when Agnes came back to them, trying to discreetly wipe her cheeks. They went silent, their conversation left unfinished, and d'Artagnan had to fight a bitter taste for some time after that. What had Aramis's tone meant? Did he disapprove of some relationships? He seemed quite attached to the Catholic faith, after all, and though d'Artagnan had a more complicated relationship with the Church – prompted by the long history of protestantism of his land and family – unconventional romance was not approved by most Christians anyway.

But then, Aramis had seemed as disgusted as d'Artagnan by what Agnes had had to go through, and he had been the first to talk about other possible loves.

D'Artagnan resolved to try and talk to him about it. It seemed important to clarify things between them, for their friendship's sake. And surely they could resolve their differences, if Aramis did turn out not to approve of certain relationships. Besides, it was more of a rhetorical disagreement than anything else. It was not as if d'Artagnan intended to pursue a relationship with anyone, much less someone who could be frowned upon, by anyone for that matter.

Familiar grey eyes flashed before him, and d'Artagnan nearly gasped aloud.

It couldn't be. He couldn't possibly...

And yet. He had to admit that he was growing closer to Athos everyday – and worse, he wanted to get even closer to him, possibly more than anything else. He couldn't forget the thrill he had felt during their first duel, the warmth when the other man had started to trust him, the fear when he had found him limp in his blazing house, and generally how contented he felt every time they were together.

He had not even thought for a second it could be anything more than regard, esteem, and friendship. But even though Aramis and Porthos were equally as admirable, and though he held them dear too, he didn't feel the same pull. It was all too different, and he knew that he would not be able to forget it now. He might not be in love with Athos; but his feelings were not quite as clear cut as he had first believed.

He spent some time after that brooding and trying to untangle his thoughts and feelings – and doing a rather poor job of it. Thankfully, Aramis was rather busy trying to distract Agnes and watching the building, and he didn't seem to take any notice of the Gascon's sudden silence – or if he did, he didn't let it show.

 

 

 

Athos had not spent the best few days. He didn't particularly appreciate politics; he had always been rather wary of life at court, and preferred to remain on his lands in the countryside. He had actually become more entangled in court intrigues during his time as a musketeer than ever when he had stood as the Comte de la Fère. Still, he did not like it. So finding himself in between the Cardinal, the King and his scheming mother, even though none of them actually registered his presence most of the time, was not really how he would have chosen to spend his time. He would have felt much better on horseback, riding out into the countryside in Aramis's stead.

So it was a relief to finally get some action as they rushed into the building where the baby was kept. Porthos headed down to check the basement and he let Aramis speed forward, confident that he and d'Artagnan could quite easily overpower the other men. The Gascon was, after all, gifted and getting better everyday, and they usually fought well together.

He didn't know if it was overconfidence or just bad luck; but even as Porthos had just arrived and was helping them dispatch the guards rather easily, he stumbled and found himself slammed against the chest of one of their enemies, a knife at his throat. He groaned as everything stilled in the room; from the corner of his eyes, he could see d'Artagnan, looking at him with wide eyes, fear quickly replacing surprise. He couldn't see his attacker, but the man had a good grip on his arm and seemed to be just tall enough that he couldn't smash his nose with his own skull.

Porthos growled and charged. Athos squeezed his eyes shut and pulled his head as far back as he could, hoping to make contact and to protect his throat by contracting his muscles. Thankfully, the knife was too dull and the man not good enough, and when Porthos crashed into them they all fell to the floor in a heap. Porthos jumped up, and Athos was caught and pulled up and away from the slightly dazed thug nearly immediately.

He barely took the time to wipe the small amount of blood welling on the surface of his skin, right on the side of his throat, and nodded briefly to reassure d'Artagnan. The other man let go of his arm after a beat longer, and Athos could not quite decipher the expression on his face – not that he had the time to really think about it: there were three more men to be taken care of.

It was quickly done, and then he slumped slightly against a wall, shaking his head. Porthos was already marching back down the stairs, apparently hot on the heels of one man who was trying to escape – they couldn't let the Queen Mother know that they had the baby, at least not too soon. He didn't move though; he trusted Porthos to take care of it.

D'Artagnan walked up to him and, wordlessly, produced a handkerchief which he then proceeded to press against Athos's throat. He had not even realized until then that he was still bleeding, and he fought the urge to wince – more because of his stupidity than because of any pain.

D'Artagnan was frowning, looking intently at his throat, before he reapplied pressure on it. He had taken off his glove; his hand was warm, and, strangely, the pressure he applied was not uncomfortable.

“That was rather clumsy of you”, the Gascon finally said, still not looking up. He seemed tense, but Athos wasn't quite sure why.

“I admit, this was a prime example of what happens if you get overconfident. Thankfully, only my pride had to pay the price.”

“Thankfully”, d'Artagnan repeated, looking up with a half-smile.

They remained still for a time, neither looking away. Athos was hardly breathing, acutely aware of d'Artagnan's hand against his throat, pressing less hard now, nearly a caress. He felt light-headed, and wouldn't have been able for the life of him to look away. D'Artagnan seemed stuck in a trance, and his eyes were unreadable. Athos saw them flicker down, and then up again, and his breath hitched when he thought that maybe, just maybe, the other man was looking at his lips. He stilled even more, eyes widening, a whirlwind of feelings he couldn't begin to understand storming through his whole being.

Then d'Artagnan took one step back, and the spell broke. There was something that looked like panic in his eyes, before his expression became unreadable. His hand fell to his side, and before Athos could move or speak, he turned around and strode out of the room.

The handkerchief fluttered down to the ground. Athos looked at it, dumbstruck, and started to follow d'Artagnan – but what would he do, what would he say? He stooped to pick up the stained piece of cloth and sagged back against the wall, willing his thoughts to become calmer. He couldn't afford to let himself loose any more concentration.

With a last shake of his head, he straightened his shoulders and pushed the handkerchief to the very bottom of one pocket; but he could feel it, like a burning brand against his skin even through the fabric, for the rest of the day. Just like he could feel d'Artagnan's hand, like a phantom pain, pressed against his throat where he was suddenly sure a jagged scar would appear sooner than later.

 

 

The ride back to Paris was mostly silent until they started making camp. They had come rather a long way with Agnes to ensure she would not be parted immediately from friendly faces, and that no one was following her. The silence hadn't particularly bothered Porthos; they all had their heads full, trying to sort out what they had just gone through. He knew Aramis in particular had been quite stricken by Agnes's plight, and he would leave him to mull over his thoughts in peace. For now, at least.

Once they were settled for the night, however, it became apparent that something else was going on. It took him a moment to pinpoint why things were feeling off balance, and several pointed looks from Aramis; but at last, while serving everyone their slices of bread and sausage, he realised that Athos and d'Artagnan were sitting on opposite sides of the fire.

This, in itself, was nothing particularly extraordinary, though it was true they usually tended to sit closer to each other – more often than not Porthos thought they didn't even realise it. But they were also studiously avoiding to look at each other, and remained mostly silent, which was rather more unusual.

He exchanged a look with Aramis, and nearly sighed. What was it now? He nodded once to himself, before getting up and stretching. He mumbled something inaudible about taking the first watch before striding out into the nearby woods. They didn't really need to set up a watch in this deserted place, but it wasn't as if they were listening to him, anyway.

He leaned against a tree, making himself comfortable, before biting into his dinner. A few minutes passed, before he heard steps coming through the leaves. He straightened up with a grin and a joke about the two idiots on his lips – but had to swallow it back rather abruptly when he realised it was Athos, not Aramis, who was now standing in front of him.

“Porthos. Mind if I keep you company? The heat of the fire makes me restless.”

Porthos just shrugged before leaning back against his tree, frowning. Athos found himself an old stump and sat down with a sigh, arms on his knees, looking down.

Porthos waited for a while, before venturing a vague grunt. Athos went very still at that, and he could have sworn the stupid man had forgotten his presence, too lost in his thoughts.

“What's wrong?”

“I don't... Nothing, really.”

Porthos rolled his eyes, trusting that the declining sun and the shade of the trees would prevent Athos from seeing it.

“Nothing. Which is why you and d'Artagnan are not talking.”

“This has nothing to do...” Athos cut himself short, and Porthos mentally applauded him for his honesty. “Fine. Things have been... Confusing. I need to settle my thoughts.”

Porthos nodded but said nothing. Athos did not often confide in him; from what he could gather, he was not used to confiding in anyone, for that matter. But on the rare occasions when he had done so, remaining silent and letting him speak had been the best tactic Porthos had found. The man usually did all the work himself, with only an occasional push needed.

“It's just – no. Nevermind.”

And with that he got up, nodded and walked briskly back to the campsite, back ramrod straight. It was so fast Porthos stood there, blinking, half a slice of sausage hanging from his mouth. That was new. Athos had never backed down from a bout of confession once he had worked himself up to it. What could be going on?

He slowly walked back after a few minutes. At the edge of the woods, he stumbled into Aramis, and felt relief.

“Now, perhaps you can explain. I just had the strangest conversation...”

“ Well, so did I”, Aramis answered with a sigh. “Come on, walk with me. I'm afraid we may have a... Situation.”

 

 

D'Artagnan spent a bad evening, and a worse night.

He watched Athos like a hawk every time he thought he could get away with it without being seen, but he couldn't decipher his thoughtful expression. Then he would look away before Athos noticed him, and curse himself. What had gone through him?

He knew very well, of course. When that man had laid hands on Athos, put a knife to his throat like that, he had felt more anger and fear than ever before. His heart had fallen down to infinite depths, before rising straight to his own throat, and he had nearly cried out in panic when Porthos had charged without a second thought. And even though everything had gone fine in the end, he had still had trouble stilling his trembling hands.

Walking up to Athos and applying his handkerchief to his wound had been instinctual; he had not been thinking, and by the time they had been that close, by the time he had felt his heartbeat under his fingers, it had been too late. He had been completely unable to tear himself away from his gaze, his proximity, each breath he took a relief that allayed his fears. It was unreasonable, ridiculous. He knew, he had witnessed, that Athos had time and time again been in such danger, and weathered it all perfectly well.

Still. Even now, when he thought back to the knife, the slightly bewildered and tense expression on Athos's face, he felt anger and fear well up inside him. He gripped his horse's reigns slightly more than strictly needed, and the sensitive beast snorted in answer, lowering its head in confusion. He immediately let go and took to cursing himself again.

It was all Aramis's fault, really. He had been quite fine before that damn conversation. In retrospect, he had to admit it had probably only been a matter of time before he realised he had become a little closer to Athos than was appropriate for friends, but still, he would have welcomed whatever oblivion he could.

But after Athos had gone after Porthos, he had suddenly felt lonely, and had welcomed the presence of Aramis by his side.

“So. Everything alright?” The other man had asked with a sympathetic smile.

“Fine”, d'Artagnan had retorted, and shrugged.

“Fine indeed... I hear Athos nearly got himself killed back there when we rescued the baby.”

D'Artagnan had looked stubbornly into the fire then. He hadn't trusted himself to speak about it, not when his emotions were still so raw and confused. Too easily he could have let out what should, surely, remain a secret.

But then he had looked up, seized by a sudden thought. Why should it remain a secret? He thought he could trust these men with his life. Surely he could speak freely to them.

“Aramis...” He had said before he could think more about it. “When you spoke of different kinds of love...” He had paused then, not really knowing what to say, or how to say it.

“Yes?” Aramis had prodded, in a very calm and patient voice.

“Did you – I mean... I don't know what I mean”, he had finally exclaimed, frustrated by the turmoil in his mind. He was not used to his life being complicated, but it had been ever since he had arrived in Paris, and he would not have gone back to his farm for anything in the world, so he would have to find a way to deal with the complicated.

“I don't know what you mean, d'Artagnan”, Aramis had then said, saving him from further frustrated stammering, “but I can tell you one thing I meant to tell you ever since: I'm glad you seem so accepting of people who seem different. This is a commendable trait. Especially when it comes to understanding the matters of the heart.”

They had remained silent after that, and though d'Artagnan had felt relieved at first that Aramis seemed to be in agreement with him, he had soon started to think more about his last sentence. Matters of the heart. This seemed like something frivolous women thought about, or else something terribly important that could dictate his entire life. He knew his father had always warned him about forming attachments, and that a broken heart was something he was better off trying to avoid, and it had seemed only logical to follow his advice. He had thought he would try and win his commission among the musketeers, and live some great adventures, perhaps win some honours from the hand of the king, and after that settle down a bit more with someone, have children, perhaps take up farming again. It had seemed distant and hazy, and but one thing had always seemed more important: leave the matters of the heart for a later day, when he had more time and leisure for it.

Well it seemed more and more like his nice plans were being thrown in a ditch now, and he did not feel quite as nicely as love was supposed to make one feel. Love. Did he even feel love? It seemed much too scary and strange, and he shook his head firmly. Athos was riding right in front of him, paying more attention to the countryside than to the road, and d'Artagnan found himself watching him for a long while, lost in thoughts that whirled around his head without really helping him understand anything.

When they arrived in Paris, he felt the beginnings of a headache, and longed for how simple his feelings had seemed to be just a few days before – and yet he did not even once try to envision ways to forget about them. It might be complicated, yes, but his regard for Athos – regard was good, a nicely neutral word, just what he needed now – his regard for Athos was too much a part of their relationship now, and he was in no doubt that he wished to pursue and strengthen this relationship. There was a bond between them, and it was a bond that he cherished, whether it involved matters of the heart or not.

But still. Things were bound to be more complicated now, and it was with a mournful sigh that he went to bed that night.

 

 

 

 


End file.
